


The Lion and the Eagle

by PrinceTriscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, my inquisitor is a disaster person when it comes to romance, this gay as hell, this is gonna be a long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 133,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceTriscuit/pseuds/PrinceTriscuit
Summary: Trystane Trevelyan, youngest son of the Ostwick Trevelyans, was a late bloomer where magic was concerned. Already training as a warrior when his magic manifested as a teen, his noble parents hid his magic nature, and thus he became a rather unusual mage, a nobleman apostate. In the wake of the disaster at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he finds himself pulled into a brutal mix of war and intrigue in the fight to stabilize southern Thedas. Along the way he finds fast friends and allies, including the notable company of a certain blonde repressed ex-templar.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's worth mentioning that I've taken substantial liberty with the Trevelyan back story, and also broken the rather strict and not very realistic fighting classes in-game because a mage who wields a staff that is also a spear is interesting to me. 
> 
> Also, this story is intended to be mostly free of drama, except for the canon-compliant drama and occasionally where it's needed to make a believable narrative? But mostly its intended to be happy.

     

          Trystane woke with a start to blinding light and chill mountain air; waves of pain throbbed through the base of his skull, down the tense muscles of his neck and into his left arm, and he cast a wild glance about him. Memory of where he was, what he had been doing, came reluctantly to his dazed mind. The Breach, his attempt to seal it, white flashes of pain through his whole body –

A resounding thud in the room focused him, and simultaneously he took in that he was in a cabin, an elf woman was kneeling before him, and that a crate had been dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He rubbed his temple, groaning, as the elf spoke.

                “Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear…” She bowed to him as she did. _Bowed_. What was going on?

                “That’s alright,” he said, trying to calm her nerves and the frayed edges in her tone. “Where am I?”

                “You’re back in Haven, my Lord,” she was still nervous. Trystane released his temple as the pressure did nothing to help the splitting pain. He raked a hand through his long hair that was messy and untied, and he pulled in to the side over his right shoulder, silver rippling and falling down to the level of his chest. He continued to sit up, trying to pry some details from the elf.

                He didn’t get much from the woman after that; she explained that she was just a humble servant, asked his blessing, and then scrambled away with a muttered excuse about reporting to Cassandra. His shoulders hunched as she left, and he breathed a sigh. He would answer to the angry seeker now, he supposed. He supposed it was too much to ask that he die in the attempt to seal the breach, and thus avoid dealing with her suspicions.

                Standing cautiously, wary of a wave of nausea washing over him, he scanned the room and found, to his surprise, that his staff had been somehow returned to him, as were his clothes. He noticed he was dressed in some overly expensive-looking pajamas, buttoned all the way up. It was quickly stripped and he donned his own clothes; black linen trousers, lined with wool, and a grey tunic, wide-necked and embroidered in silver, and a loosely knit cardigan, tied with a sash of black samite. Over this he laced leather bracers and shin guards. He noticed as he laced up his bracer that his hand still had that odd green mark on it; almost like a glowing seam in the flesh of his palm. Flexing his hand he could feel it faintly in pins and needles. Then he took his staff in hand, his hand gripping well-worn wood and bound in ivory. The ivory grip was emblazoned with the Trevelyan sigil in silver.

                He knew his staff was something odd compared to most others’. His magic had manifested later than many mages, and so he had been raised as a warrior, trained to wield a spear. As such, his staff was modified to be used as a spear as well; the head of the staff replaced with a runed Silverite spearhead and a small blunt counterweight at the base. He tapped it along the floor as he strode towards the door and flung it open.

                The sunlight reflecting off of the mountain snow was enough to make him regret his decision, aggravating his already angry headache, but what stunned him was rows of soldiers and villagers kneeling towards the door. _I’m asleep. This has to be a dream, or the Fade, or something._ He tried not to react as he moved in between the rows of onlookers, looking for a likely place to find the Seeker and end this surreal experience. The only structure of note, aside from a few huts, was a Chantry, and he made his way there and tried his best to ignore the muttering of the people lining the path, but one thing in particular caught his attention:

                “That’s him. That’s the Herald of Andraste,” hushed but nearby, two Sisters huddled in conspiratorial conversation and stealing glances as he passed. _Herald of Andraste? Maker’s breath._ This fever dream was really getting to him.

                Once in the Chantry, it was easy to find the Seeker. She was not a subtle woman, he had surmised, and even from the entrance he could hear angry shouting from a chamber in the back. Even if she was likely in a meeting to which he was not welcome, he figured he couldn’t be in more trouble than accused-murderer-of-the-Divine. Supposed killer of the most well-loved figure in southern Thedas. At the heavy oak door he stopped, nervous, and then thrust open the door.

                “Chain him! And prepare him for travel to the capital,” the acidic tone of a chantry father – Roderick, whose acquaintance he had made briefly on the way to the breach – broke instantly through their argument, and as he flinched reflexively at the sight of two templar guardsmen, Cassandra interrupted him.

                “Disregard that, and leave us,” she waved dismissively to the guards, who about-faced and left the room. Suddenly, Trystane wanted to go with them. The air of the room almost felt predatorial and, while he was not generally prone to nerves, he felt small.

                He watched as Cassandra and the priest traded quips, and he got the impression of a small dog yapping to a much larger, stronger, more ferocious hound that happened to be named Cassandra and wielded a sword.

                “I did everything I could to seal the Breach,” he butted in. “It almost killed me.” Roderick whirled on him, but he had decided that this father was more bark than bite.

                “And yet you live; a convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned,” the old man’s face seemed to be contorted in a permanent sneer and berry-red from anger.

                In the conversation that followed, it became clear that the voices in the temple – that Trystane could barely remember through the radiating pain in his skull – seemed to have absolved him of guilt in the eyes of the Seeker and Leliana, the hooded redheaded woman who he also remembered meeting at the forward camp in the valley.

                All of this was topped off with a heavy smack of leather on wood as Cassandra dropped a thick tome onto the table, bound in metal and leather and emblazoned with the symbol of an eye. It was a directive, written by the late Divine Justinia, granting her Hands the authority to found a new Inquisition, whose purpose was to discover who was the culprit behind the explosion, to bring them to justice, to seal the Breach and to bring stability to southern Thedas once more. Unfortunately for him, Trystane’s mark bound him to the fate of the inquisition, as the only one who could seal Rifts.

                It certainly beat hiding from the templars in Ostwick, he supposed.

***

                Steel met steel in resounding clatter throughout the small training ground of the fledgling Inquisition. Cullen eyed the recruits and scattered templars, occasionally calling out corrections and orders. They were new, but they were still eager; the events at the Breach had invigorated them and their purpose. For the first time in a long time, Cullen could feel the same sense of hope, the blossoming desire to serve.

                He definitely had a set opinion on mages, and magic in general. Unlike the typical templar, or ex-templar, he knew there was wild variation in temperament from mage to mage; he was a pragmatist though and he was always wary of them. His opinion was born of being flung between extremes of tragedy, from the fall of Kinloch Hold to the templar abuse overseen by Knight-Commander Meredith of Kirkwall. Everyone in Thedas, however, had the same mental picture of a mage: bookish, enrobed and with an arcane staff, physically unimposing but intellectually condescending.

                One can imagine his surprise, then, when he saw the mage Herald descending the slight slope from the gates of Haven to the training ground, spear in hand. They had only briefly met on the battlefield of the temple and then, again shortly, in the very first strategic meeting of the Inquisition. He was tall, confident and athletic, with the bearing of a fighter. He had since learned he was a Trevelyan, the youngest son of a noble family in Ostwick, and a mage of some skill. Why he was coming to the practice field was a mystery to the commander, but he found himself watching his approach and ignoring somewhat the metal clatter all around him.

                “Hi there, Commander,” Trevelyan had strode directly to him and now stood before him, leaning slightly on his spear-staff with a confident grin. “I hope it’s okay if I’ve come for some practice,”

                Now there _was_ a surprise. “Practice?” Cullen asked. “With what? There aren’t any mages here, Herald.” There was a slight frown, lips pressed into a thin line for only a moment before he lifted his staff into the air.

                “There ain’t a blade on this just for show, ser,” he smirked. He had an accent, very subtle, Cullen noted. It was in the way his voice lilted gently, smokey and low. He cast a glance around the field, ignoring confident grey-green eyes. His gaze found a templar, one of the men he had brought to the inquisition with him out of Kirkwall, Lieutenant Dunlain. He was idle, watching recruits from beside one of the equipment tents.

                “Not at all,” he replied softly after only a short pause, before he motioned to Dunlain. “Lieutenant! Our Herald needs a sparring partner.” Looking back to Trevelyan, he saw quite the grin in his expression. He coughed awkwardly and then said “I suppose you need a lot of space to wield that thing. Why don’t you two move to the end of the row?” Trevelyan nodded and strode to the end of the field of recruits only to find that many of them had stopped to watch with keen interest as the templar approached the Herald, having heard the Commander say that the mage Herald would be sparring. Almost unconsciously a space appeared in the center of the field and the templar, confidently, motioned for the Herald to join him there, who gave a confident laugh. With his spear resting lightly on his shoulder he approached the now-definite ring that was forming and the Commander decided that, this once, he could let it slide. It might be good for morale, after all.

                “I suppose there ain’t too much harm in puttin’ on a show,” Trevelyan said as he flashed Cullen a grin.

                “I suppose so,” came Cullen’s amused reply.

                In an instant the air changed, became expectant, as the templar drew his sword and shield, and the Herald gave his spear a light twirl. The two circled for a moment, and Trevelyan seemed at ease, almost lazy. Cullen found himself staring at the man, looking at him really for the first time. The Herald had a very distinct face, dark stubble defining his sharp jaw, his hair long, incredibly so,  bound into a ponytail and worn down and over one shoulder. It was a beautiful silver color that couldn’t have been natural – Cullen knew that there were nobles who used potions to change the color of their hair, and wondered if Trevelyan was one of them. He noted that the man was, evidently, not a fan of bright colors, as he had only seen him in black and grey things.

                The templar, done waiting, lunged forward with his shield raised and sword poised for a forward stab; in a flash of silver the spear spun, deflecting the sword and slamming the weight of the spear’s butt into the side of the shield. Dunlain stepped back hastily to avoid a wide sweep with the bladed end of the staff, and brought his sword up to meet it with a loud clang. Trevelyan pressed the advantage, stepping forward as he brought his superior reach and agility to bear, striking the shield of the templar with impressive strength, almost batting it from the man’s hands. Cullen saw, then, that what he had mistaken as laziness was more predatorial than that; Trevelyan approached Dunlain with the sureness and deadly precision of an eagle tracking its prey, and a few exchanges ended the way the first had; Dunlain was growing frustrated and was trying his best to press into the Herald’s space, trying to get close enough that the length of the spear was an impediment, not an advantage, but the noble’s defenses were excellent, his form refined by years of practice. In truth, Trevelyan didn’t seem to even break a sweat. Cullen noted templars and recruits alike looking on in admiration of the man who had stabilized the Breach.

                Dunlain, fatigued and growing angry, leapt forward with a ferocious war cry, bashing at the spear with his sword, succeeding in striking the staff away and he lunged forward into Trevelyan’s first true opening. Cullen’s heart spiked as he realized that things might get out of hand shortly, but in an instant it was over, almost faster than he could follow.  

***

                His spear arm knocked to the side, Trystane watched as Dunlain grinned and lunged, taking the opportunity that the Herald had decided to leave him. Trystane dropped the spear, sidestepping and grabbing the man’s sword-arm by the wrist, twisting it under him until he dropped it and the shield from the awkward maneuver, and drove him to the ground. He stepped on the templar’s chest and grinned at him triumphantly but good-naturedly, smiling as he stepped off him and helped him to his feet. He could almost imagine that Dunlain had held onto his hand for a moment too long, as he looked into the ex-templar’s somewhat embarrassed expression. He released the hand with a slight flush.

                _Maker, what is it with me and men in uniform,_ he silently berated himself.

 There was some applause from the gathered recruits, but when he looked to the sidelines he saw Cullen, shocked and… concerned? He had stepped forward, as if to intervene. The commander had apparently thought he was in danger, and he felt something odd rising in his chest. He parted from the templar, giving him a nod. “ ‘S only sparrin, yeah?” he said, and with a gesture his spear lifted from the dirt and settled in his grip.” That earned him some looks from the gathered warriors – he was a _mage_ , after all – but he quickly ducked through the recruits back to the sideline by the Commander amid orders to get back to drills.

                “What’d you think, Commander?” he asked. Cullen had recovered from his surprise and was giving him a look that was almost appreciative. He had a slight grin, he scar on his lip drawing his eyes to it, and he found himself staring.

                “Quite a show,” came the response. “Perhaps you ought to help out here. Maybe train some of our men to use a spear? Quite an uncommon weapon in this part of the world,” he noted.

                “It’s true, you Fereldans love a sword or axe almost as you like your _little_ swords –“ he stopped mid-sentence as he realized that the joke had slipped out. The commander went red and coughed into his hand, so he diverted. “Um, indeed I can help with that, the trainin’ that is,” the Herald screamed internally. He knew he ought to be more reserved with the blessed _commander of the inquisition_. There was an awkward pause as Cullen nodded.

                “Yes, that was quite the match,” they were interrupted by Cassandra’s voice. She had lined up with everyone else to watch them spar. “It’s reassuring to see that you won’t need babysitting on our trip to the Hinterlands.” Trystane didn’t miss the implication there. He was to be useful if he wanted to earn respect here. He nodded to the Seeker, who turned on her heel and left towards the practice dummies.

                “You know, that’s as close to a compliment as I’ve seen her give,” Cullen remarked with a chuckle when he saw Trevelyan’s lips pressed into that thin frown, and he didn’t miss how that frown dissipated as the man turned to look at him again. There was a pause, as he looked at the Commander, feeling something pressing on his chest again, before he looked away towards Haven.

                “I, uh, suppose,” he replied. “I better be getting back to town. I was meanin to have a talk with Solas.” With that and a nod to the commander, Trystane backed out of the training field and jogged up to the gate of the village. He was unaware of the Commander’s gaze watching him leave.

***

                Endlessly interesting was the magic of the mark upon the Herald’s hand; Solas found that he was aware of the man’s approach without even looking up from a book that he read as he sat perched upon a low cobblestone wall. Glance shifting to Trystane as he moved up the few steps towards the apothecary where Solas spent much of his time, calling to the elf:

                “Solas! Just the one I was lookin’ for,” he called with a friendly grin. “I’ve got a question for you, if you ain’t mindin’ “. He stopped a few paces from the Solas, who marked his place and then closed the book.

                “I suppose it depends upon the question,” he responded neutrally. He hadn’t entirely made up his mind about the Herald yet. The man was friendly and brash on the surface, but he was bright and something told the Solas that there was more beneath the camaraderie. He stood respectfully from his improvised seat.

                “Fair enough,” Trevelyan nodded. He was gazing thoughtfully at the mark and stretched it out before him, palm up, before looking him in the eye. “I was wondering about the relationship between this and the Breach. Mostly, if you think there’s a chance that it will disappear if, and when, we seal the breach.” His hand dropped to his side as he spoke, but the mark was still bright in Solas’ mind’s eye, piercing green light even against the daylight.

                Solas weighed the question before responding, but mostly he tried to gauge the intent. Was it painful? Maybe the man was eager to be rid of it. Perhaps he felt bound to the fate of the Inquisition by the mark. “I cannot say with certainty,” he responded, “as even after days of study much of the mark’s nature remains a mystery to me. Perhaps, if their existence is bound to each other, it will fade with the Breach. My instinct tells me this isn’t so; I believe that the mark acts independently of the breach, as is evidenced by its ability to react to other Rifts.” There was no immediate response, instead Trevelyan nodded thoughtfully. “May I ask why you wanted to know, specifically?”

                “Oh, it’s me bein’ paranoid, I guess,” Trevelyan sighed. “If I lose the mark, then what happens with the other rifts? We’d lose our way to seal them,” his voice trailed off a little as he looked into the distance. Following his gaze he saw that it was trained on the Breach, beautiful and malevolent in the distance. Solas often found himself doing the same thing. It was darkly fascinating.

                “Allow me to ask you something in return, Herald,” Solas found himself asking. He didn’t know why a curiosity had sparked in him from nowhere, but he continued. “What magic do you wield? I noticed during the fight in the Valley that you seemed mostly focused on casting defensive barriers and wielding your spear-staff. This is a combination that I have never seen among mages.”

                Trevelyan flushed a little and his unmarked arm went to the back of his neck, scratching in embarrassment. “To tell ya the truth of the matter, I’m not particularly skilled as an offensive mage,” he said. “I was trained as a spirit healer. My magic manifested later than for some; I was a teenager at the time. My mother and father asked a dalish mage to be my tutor, and I was never sent to a circle. As such, I focused on my spirit healing and… sympathetic magic.”

                Solas’ interest was piqued by that. “That would have made you an apostate, as I was. How surprising for a nobleman.” Trevelyan chuckled in response, shifting his weight and drawing his arms in towards himself against the cold.

                “Yeah, but I was a quick learner. Never had any accidents in public, and only practiced at home. In public, I still trained with the knights of our hold. Been wieldin’ a spear since I was a little thing, five or six years old.” He released a misty breath into the cold air, and then giving Solas a small grin he made a gesture with one hand in front of him. There blossomed a sphere of ethereal white-blue light much like veilfire. Solas looked intrigued.

                “A will-o-the-wisp. You certainly do practice sympathetic magic. How interesting to find a human mage practicing elven magic,” the elven apostate stretched his hand out towards the orb, flickering in place and radiating warmth.

                Trevelyan didn’t respond except to grin slightly while staring into the blue light and stretching his hands forward to share in the heat of the will-o-the-wisp. In that moment they heard someone calling the Herald from the direction of the chantry; Seeker Cassandra.

***

The wisp faltered and dissipated as the woman rounded the corner of the apothecary and eyed them warily as she approached. “We are ready to leave for the Hinterlands,” she announced unceremoniously. Her actual intent was understood. _Let’s go, now._ He nodded and the three of them made their way to the main gate, where their packs had been collected. They were traveling light; the inquisition had precious few horses to spare, and so they were making the journey to the Hinterlands on foot. Hopefully they would procure the aid of one Horsemaster Dennett and make future trips on horseback. The Hinterlands weren’t too far anyway; they had only to descend from the foothills where Haven was situated and there they were. It would be a day’s journey to the forward camp, if they made good time.

He had mixed thoughts about their mission to the Hinterlands; it was multifaceted, encompassing a meeting with a Mother Giselle who was supposedly sympathetic to their cause, their mission to close rifts in the area and stabilize the conflict between rogue templars and apostates, and to secure the assistance of the horsemaster. He was eager to prove himself and the Inquisition’s mission by helping to stabilize the region, and recognized the importance of their need for the horsemaster, but he didn’t trust this Mother Giselle. News had reached them that the Chantry had quickly denounced the Inquisition as heretics, pointing to him specifically, and he saw no reason to believe that this Mother wouldn’t be luring him into a trap, or why she would willingly declare tacit heresy by working with them.

At the Seeker’s insistence they were going. Leliana felt that it was safe and the other advisors had been persuaded, but it all seemed suspicious to him.

                They passed the training camp on their way out of Haven and, unconsciously, Trystane scanned it for the Commander and found the blonde man watching them pass by. He nodded to Cullen, and got one in return as they passed into the treeline and down into the foothills.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane contemplates his place within the Inquisition.

It had been an exhausting and hard-fought couple of days, here in the Hinterlands. They worked tirelessly, on the move constantly from objective to objective as they first met with Mother Giselle, then moved towards finding and neutralizing the encampments of the rogue templars and apostates alike. Now they had made camp in a clearing on the outskirts of Dennett’s ranch and rested for the first time that day, and Trystane was glad that the inquisition scouts had done the setting up of this forward camp.

                The meeting with Giselle had gone surprisingly well, if you consider that they hadn’t arrived to any violent ambush. She had told him that he should appeal to the Grand Clerics in person in an attempt to dispel the vitriol being propagandized throughout Orlais and most of the rest of Thedas, and sow dissent among their ranks so that they couldn’t pose a threat to the new Inquisition. It was an intriguing plan, one that might actually work. The only issue he could foresee is the risk of his capture by the Chantry; Cassandra had assured him that with no templar forces to back them, the chantry was not a physical threat. He hoped she was right.

                Now after two days of skirmishes and raids on templar and apostate encampments, they had some room to breathe. Outside of the context of battle, this area was beautiful; lush forest and hills crisscrossed by streams, dotted with idyllic huts. Isolated places scattered throughout the region had been marred by conflict, glacial enchantments jutting from the ground and burned huts littering the recent battlegrounds. With the two rebel forces dispersed, perhaps it would recover quickly, Trystane hoped.

                Tomorrow they were to meet with Dennett and hopefully secure his aid. He hoped it would be as simple as that, and that was in no small part due to his wanting to return on horseback instead of walking. The young nobleman, while an accomplished warrior-mage, had never done so much walking in his life.

                “What’s with the long face, Silver?” Varric’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he glanced up from where he had been staring into the fire; he was used to maintaining a façade of confidence and ease, but he was so tired that his focus had drifted.

                “Nothin’ at all, Cards,” he chuckled his response. Varric rolled his eyes in response at his new nickname – but if he insisted on giving the Herald one, then he’d get one too. Trystane may not have quite the way with words that the dwarf, admittedly a wordsmith by trade, possessed, but it hadn’t taken long to pick up on Varric’s fondness for gambling, especially in Wicked Grace. “Just tired’s all.”

                Varric nodded understandingly, and he felt that the dwarf may be a little too perceptive for his liking. He gave him a wide grin, trying to deflect his concern. He liked Varric, he was clever and humorous, and seemed to be an empathic sort of man. Unfortunately, he bickered with Cassandra to no end, resulting in the Seeker spending more time in her tent than by the fire socializing. Try as he might to warm up to the woman, she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length.

                Trystane found that, surprisingly, Solas had warmed up to him considerably during the trip. He had told him about an elvhen device he had seen in his dreams that might strengthen the veil if activated, and Trystane had put a great deal of time into helping him find and activated it. After that, he noticed that the elf was somewhat more friendly to him than before, even if he was still at arms length. Now, the elf was perched on a rock that overlooked their camp, lying on his back and staring into the night sky.

                Unexpectedly, the Herald found himself wanting to return to Haven. He didn’t know why, he certainly didn’t feel at home there; perhaps he found himself missing the relative security of the village walls after spending a couple days traveling, always fighting. He had sealed three rifts in the past two days and, while he felt proud of the work they were doing, he needed genuine rest. Deciding that the camp’s approximation of sleep was the best he could do under the given circumstances, he got up and hot into the tent that he shared with Solas, falling into a restless sleep.

***

                Seated across from Josephine, next to Leliana at the diplomat’s desk for lunch, Cullen sipped at hot tea that was a welcome change from the chill air of the training ground. They were waiting on food to be brought, and the spy and the diplomat had fallen into easy gossip to pass the time; the commander was quickly learning that they were incorrigible gossips. He supposed that it wasn’t a surprise that a politician and a spymaster would be fond of spreading rumor.

                “So, Commander, what do you think of our Herald?” Leliana brought Cullen’s thoughts away from his mug. He set it down carefully amid neat stacks of papers.

                “He’s quite different from other mages. But I haven’t spoken with him enough to have a real opinion,” he said. A flash of grey-green eyes and the glint of a silver spear.

                “How boringly neutral of you,” she teased him with a smirk. “Lighten up, Cullen. We’re on a break right now.”

                “I, for one, think that if the Herald had to be a mage, at least it’s one like him,” Josephine said with a sigh. “He carries himself more like a warrior that a mage, which puts others at ease. His manners are good enough to tell he’s of noble birth, but he will have to put more effort into being professional,” she punctuated her statement with a sip of her tea.

                “Oh, I think he’s quite charming. One of the templars, I believe his name is Dunlain, is apparently fond of him,” she said with a sly grin to Josephine.

                “ _No,_ ” the diplomate gasped with an excited, scandalized grin. She was a romantic, after all, and Cullen figured the templar-mage story would pique her interest. Without his noticing, a scowl turned down the corners of his mouth and he sipped his tea without comment.

                “You don’t seem pleased Cullen,” Leliana noted. “Is it because they are men?” Cullen shook his head.

                “No, uh, I don’t care what Dunlain does, or wants to do, in his spare time, so long as he keeps up with his duties. I just think we shouldn’t gossip about the Herald.” He glanced aside and therefore missed the raised brow that Leliana cast to Josephine.

                “Anyway. Do you suppose Trevelyan returns his interest?” Josephine inquired, leaning over the desk.

                “Not to my knowledge, although there is rumor that he was known to pass time with men in Ostwick. According to an agent of mine who was from his hold, he was known to have a thing for soldiers,” she said it with a playful tone and glanced at Cullen who kept his expression neutral, and didn’t respond.

                A knock at the door and a servant entered carrying a platter of small sandwiches. Cullen resisted the urge to roll his eyes; he was a warrior, not some Orlesian dowager, he’d rather have something more substantial for his lunch. He accepted it, however, glad for the change in topic. He wasn’t certain why, but the idea of Dunlain courting Trevelyan didn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach.

                “I will tell you one thing, though,” he said in between bites. “The man is a capable fighter. Beat Dunlain just as easily as if he were a raw recruit. I should very much like to spar him myself sometime.” Face buried in his sandwich, he didn’t notice the looks exchanged between the spymaster and the diplomat.

***

                It was night when the Herald and his small party made it back to Haven, Mother Giselle in tow. Trystane still thought that this was a rather convenient turn of events for the Mother, depending on her allegiances. In the past he had been a rather pious Andrastian; recent events had made him suspicious of Chantry folk, even disdainful to an extent, though he kept those feelings to himself. He understood well the negative repercussions of the supposed ‘Herald of Andraste’ scorning the faithful. They passed into the perimeter of the village to little attention, given that most people were asleep or on duty. Other than the occasional watchman, they didn’t really pass anyone on their way towards the Chantry.

                There was one notable exception: a lantern was lit on the makeshift desk Cullen had set up at the training grounds, and it was obvious even from a distance that the commander was still up and busy. On an impulse, Trystane turned from the group, waving them a good evening as he approached the lamp. Cullen didn’t even notice his approach until has was standing over the man, noting that he was probably cold even in his impressive fur mantle. Trystane tapped him on the shoulder and Cullen sat up from a document he was reading with a start.

                “Maker’s breath, who-“ Cullen stopped mid-sentence as he saw the mage standing across from him. As the man recovered from his surprise in a brief moment, Trystane noted appreciatively the moonlight playing on his fair hair, the scar of his lip and the shadows of his neck… until he was interrupted from his momentary reverie. “You’re back,” he said with a warm grin.

                “That I am,” Trystane nodded. “Wanted to see why you’re out in the ass-end of the trainin’ field instead of sleepin’.” He gave the commander a cheeky grin.

                “It’s…” Cullen hesitated. “Nothing. I like the chill night air to help me focus.” He shuffled papers as the Herald’s brows knit into a brief furrow, eyes narrowing as he caught onto the pause. He chose not to remark, releasing the brief tension.

                “Fair enough.” He turned to leave but stopped, half-turned towards the gate, and looked back at Cullen who looked vaguely flustered. “You know, the Herald’s Rest’ll still be servin’ a while longer. We should grab a pint before I go pass out,” he gave out the invitation like releasing a breath, with only slight nerves that weren’t noticed by the commander.

                After a moment of thought, the man shook his head gently, “Not tonight, Herald. I apologize but I have got a lot to catch up on.” He didn’t look, didn’t see the briefest shadow of understanding that flitted through the Trystane’s expression.

                “Suit yourself,” he moved silently up to the gate and through it. Cullen breathed a sigh and got back to work.

***

                Cassandra’s day began very early, every day. She awoke at the third bell, said her prayers and ate, and went through drills before attending to her duties. She reveled in her morning routine, her sanctuary of faith and discipline before dealing with the madness of the Inquisition. What she did not enjoy was finding Trevelyan there as well, just before the fourth bell was to ring, in light gear and stretching his left leg up high enough to rest his ankle against the head of the dummy next to which he stood. Her mouth set into a firm line as she approached, her morning serenity instantly soured.

                “Just _what_ do you think you are doing to this mannequin?” she inquired to the Herald who had not seen her coming, with his back turned to her approach. Lightly he let off of the dummy, swinging his leg around to pivot to her with a big grin stuck to his face.

                “Ah, Cassandra, how lovely to see you up so… early,” he said. “I’m stretching.”

                “I cannot imagine why you would need to be quite that flexible,” she said, thinking on how his legs had formed a practically straight line. Unbothered he lifted his other leg, propping it against the practice dummy the same way.

                “I like to be loose, agile, flexible in combat,” he said. “Plus, there’s something beautiful that draws me to it… have you ever heard of ballet, Seeker?”

                “I know only that it is Orlesian foolishness,” she retorted as she picked up a blunted practice sword from a rack and positioned herself at a mannequin a few yards away.

                “I suppose you would think so,” he sounded almost disappointed. “It’s a school of dance that started to gain traction in Ostwick when I was young,” he continued unprompted. “I saw a performance with my mother and father and loved it instantly. Its singular premise is uncompromising discipline in the pursuit of developed flexibility and strength, and grace.” He placed his foot down and seemed as if he was about to leave. “I always thought there was something… righteous about it. About strength and grace together, without compromise. It’s something I’ve tried to translate into my fightin’. It’s the closest thing to a virtue that I strive for.”

                Cassandra was left somewhat dumbfounded as the Herald unceremoniously turned and left her to her morning drills, presumably to exercise elsewhere. She had never seen him that serious. Even if she wasn’t the most emotionally perceptive person in the world, she would be daft to have missed the vulnerability in what he had told her.

                Even so, she still thought it to be nothing but fancy stretching, inflated like all Orlesian nonsense.

***

                In the war room, the advisors bickered in their usual way. Trystane felt subdued, not tired but certainly not his normally charming self. He allowed them to argue over the topic of Mother Giselle’s advice until it came to a head with Cassandra giving Leliana an exasperated plea.

                “What choice do we have? At present we cannot approach the mages or the templars with the breach. Mother Giselle gave you names? So use them. I will go with the Herald to Val Royaux and see to his safety.”

                There were no further protests, and Trystane agreed neutrally to the plan; he knew he had little choice in the matter either way. He had the feeling that scurrying all around Thedas might soon be his new norm. Once plans were made, it was decided that they would leave at dawn the next morning so that the group might have a full day of sunlight to start on their journey, and Trevelyan darted from the room towards the training grounds. Restless energy was pooling in his stomach and he needed a way to get it out; his morning workout had been cut short by the irate Seeker and his sense of frustration had followed him through the day.

                He was quickly learning that the people he worked with were not very receptive to his attempts to be friendly; Solas seemed respectful but distant, Varric shielded by a façade of humor, the Seeker almost deliberately rebuffing his attempts at bridging the hostility that lingered between them, and even the advisors seemed reluctant to speak with him outside the context of Inquisition matters.

                Trevelyan felt that he knew why, too. He knew that he was a tool here. Rather, he was a vessel for the mark that closed rifts. The body it was attached to just happened to be him. He felt a strange sense of rejection welling up the pit of his gut and decided to vent this negative energy. The training field wouldn’t do, and without intention he felt his strides carrying him through the fates of haven, past the previous apothecary’s hut and into a clearing just beyond the palisade border of the village. 

                He planted his staff blade-first into the ground, a satisfying crunch of fresh snow and ice being broken, and a graceful stride took him to a nearby tree on the edge of the clearing. It surprised him to no end that the foliage here remained green and growing somehow, even in the cold foothills of the mountains. He plucked a leaf from the tree, turning it by the short stem in his fingers and examining it before walking back to his staff planted into the center of the clearing. He had set it into the ground next to a lone boulder, the field empty for anything else but scattered druffalo and snow. He climbed the boulder, taking a seat on its frozen surface and ignored the cold seeping through his trousers. He was angry, something in the back of his mind told him he was perhaps unreasonable so.

                Memories bubbled to the surface, recalling the number of times he had done this sheltered in his family estate. It was something he had been taught by his tutor, a way to essentially wear himself out by rapidly expanding mana. Eyes trained on the leaf caught in his fingertips, he released it into the air before him, level with his head. It stayed there, suspended, and he breathed in slowly. Breath released in a controlled stream, the leaf began to swivel in place, spinning but never falling, and the wind around him whipped up lazily. Trystane poured his frustration into it, venting mana into the wind charm and suddenly a vortex of biting cold air kicked up around him, sending spirals of snow high into the air as he kept his gaze transfixed on the rapidly spinning leaf suspended before him, in the eye of this small storm.

                The Herald was no longer a fresh apprentice mage, venting in the private spaces of a family estate. He was much stronger, his reserves of mana much deeper, and he sensed that the charm wasn’t draining him nearly as quickly as it used to. Tears welled up and spilled over the corner of his eyes only to freeze in place thanks to the frigid wind that only increased in intensity.

                Distantly he felt the blossoming of mana nearby but paid it no heed. The wind charm was a natural barrier, subtle but strong, and most mages wouldn’t understand how it worked, let alone how to counter it-

                Another blossoming of magic, warm and strong, piercing the veil of wind and the vortex destabilized, the leaf dropping to his lap. He cast an accusatory glance at the source of the interruption. Solas. Of course he would know how to undo the magic; he had found Solas to be equally versed in sympathetic magic in their discussions.

                What he did not expect was to find Cassandra, Cullen and a handful of templars there as well.

                “What’d you do that for?” he asked in a neutral tone, directed to Solas, as if he hadn’t been found in a frozen clearing deliberately surrounding himself in a miniature blizzard.

                “I think a better question is what in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?” The Seeker responded, cutting off the response forming on the elf’s lips. “We say a tower of ice magic and thought we were perhaps under attack, only to hear from Solas that this is your doing. Explain yourself.”

                “I’m meditatin’,” Trystane said deliberately, measured in tone. “Or I was.” He got up, reached out with one hand as the staff lifted itself from the ice and into his hand. He was glad that the cold had already left his skin marked and red, so that those gathered probably couldn’t discern the mask of frozen tears on his cheeks.

                “In the middle of your own personal ice storm?” Cullen asked, exasperated.

                “I don’t expect you lot to understand,” he deflected casually and began to walk off towards the village, only to have a firm grip catch his bicep. The commander was staring into his eyes and Trystane couldn’t tell if he was irritated, angry or concerned. He pulled his arm from the commander’s grasp and said “Should’ve just sent Solas if you knew it was me, seein’ he’s the one who could dispel the charm ‘n all. I’ve got affairs to attend. Commander, Seeker.” He nodded to them each and left them stunned in his wake as he returned to the village.

                In the shelter – relative shelter – of his cabin, Trystane cursed and cursed that he’d been found essentially throwing a magical tantrum. He hadn’t thought about how visible it would be from the town, hadn’t thought at all really. His consolation, if it could be called that, was that as long as he was alive and well then there was no cause for concern. He would still be useful. He fell asleep, cold to the bone and lonely as that thought bounced around his consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald appears before the Grand Clerics in Val Royaux, afterwards he makes unexpected allies.

It had been early in the day when he fell asleep, so it wasn’t a surprise when he awoke to find the sun was only starting to set. Trystane only ever slept for a few hours at most – as a consequence of his being a spirit healer, he only needed a couple of hours rest every day, sometimes not even that. Sitting up from his bed, he wondered what he should do. After having stormed out of the clearing, he felt like a child who had to deal with the aftermath of their tantrum. It was probably a fitting descriptor, he felt.

                He had collapsed onto his bed still in his clothes, boots on, and everything was damp from the melted snow that had clung to him during his ‘meditations’. He stripped, drying himself thoroughly and re-dressing in drier things. The discarded, damp affairs were hung from a chair so that they might dry somewhat, and he figured he needed a drink. With luck, nobody who he had seen earlier that day would be there – none of them frequented the tavern anyway.

                The Herald blew into the Herald’s Rest and directly to the bar like a storm, motioning to Flissa for some ale. She was swift with the mug, likely having noticed he was not in the cheeriest of moods. He downed it swiftly and pretended he didn’t hear footsteps approaching him.

                “Silver,” Varric’s voice called gently from behind him. “What the fuck was that? Pardon my Orlesian.”

                “I was blowing off steam, and next thing I know the Seeker had organized a witch hunt for me,” Trystane’s response was irate. Undeterred, the dwarf pulled up a stool next to his and climbed on it. The Herald, as he motioned for two more mugs and drained his first, thought in passing that it must be awfully inconvenient for Varric to live in a space dominated by humans; none of the stools were sized for Dwarves.

                “You make Cassandra’s way of ‘blowing off steam’ look healthy,” Varric chuckled.

                “And so it is. For me. It’s just a way of drainin’ my magic, makin’ me exhausted, in a safe place.” Trystane looked to the rogue and was surprised to see concern there in place of the usual teasing look. “It’s something my tutor taught me, when I was a kid. Normally that spell is just a shield of sorts, but it takes a lot of energy to use. I do it when I’m frustrated to vent all this… pent-up energy.”

                “Well you’ve got any number of reasons to be frustrated, and I’m no mage, but that looked a lot more like anger,” Varric sighed and took a swig of his ale. Trystane chuckled and did the same.

                “S’pose it might,” he breathed. His shoulders hunched.

                “You know, talking’s a hell of a lot better for that kind of thing that sticking yourself in a miniature blizzard,” Varric suggested and nudged the Herald’s arm with his shoulder. “Just a thought. But I’ll let you be for now.”

                “Thanks, Varric,” Trystane said as the dwarf retreated from the inn.

***

They had set out at dawn the next day, and made swift progress on their new mounts, courtesy of their new Horsemaster. The gruff man had been convinced after a spiritually moving speech by the Seeker, and now he was trying to scavenge together a passable stable for the Inquisition’s considerable efforts. Four days of travel later they traversed a blindingly white stone bridge leading into the religious and political capital of the Orlesian Empire. Trystane was nervous – he had been to Val Royaux once or twice with his father on business but coming as a despised heretic was another experience entirely.

It didn’t help that the journey had been passed in awkward silence as the Herald all but shunned his companions, particularly the seeker, discussing magical theory with Solas on occasion and reluctantly accepting Varric’s attempts at breaking the discomfiting quiet of their camp. They had traveled with a couple of Leliana’s people, who had moved into the city earlier that day to collect information.

One of the scouts approached them now from the entrance to the city and informed them that not only had the clerics mustered a crowd to publicly condemn the Herald, but that there was also a company of templars who had unexpectedly arrived in the capital. The rumor among the people was that the templars were there to rejoin the Chantry and protect the people from the wicked Inquisition.

“Protect the people – from us?” Cassandra huffed, offended.

“It ain’t exactly surprisin’, Seeker,” Trystane responded. “We bein’ reviled heretics and all. This should be interesting.”

There in the open market plaza of Val Royaux, they were met with Mother Hevara and a couple of other minor clerics who had even assembled a stage for their theatrics. The Mother delivered an impassioned denunciation of the Herald, and declared that the templars had returned to the fold in order to protect the Chantry; none of this was surprising. They had expected hard headedness and hatred from the Grand Clerics. What came next, however, was a shock not only to the crowd and the Inquisition party, but to the Chantry Mother as well.

The templars, taking the stage after their summons by the mother, proceeded to completely disregard her. One of them, striding confidently to her side, struck a blow directly to her face. It connected with an audible thud and the woman was down. It was done with the casual callousness of a child swatting at buzzing insects.

“What is the meaning of this?” Trystane belted out with indignation, anger rising in his neck and shoulders at the site.

“Her claim to authority – her claim to control of our destiny – is an insult. Much like your own,” he Lord Seeker spat. He was visibly enraged and almost seemed to struggle to speak.

“Lord Seeker, we must-” Cassandra began before the Lord Seeker cut her off.

“Do not address me,” he ordered. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet; you should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed!” He turned to the gathered crowd and clerics as he continued. “The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages.”

“So if you aren’t here to talk, you’re here to make speeches and hit old women?” the Herald shouted, accusatory. “Some authority you are!”

“I came to see what scares the Chantry’s hens so, and to laugh,” the Lord Seeker positively smirked. “You who would leash our righteous fury with doubt and fear, you are judged by the Order and found wanting. Val Royaux is unworthy of our protection! Templars,” he turned to his men. “We march!” and with that, the company of templars departed the capital.

The plaza was left in stunned silence, but eventually Cassandra found her wits. “Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?”

“I’m not sure this is the kind of man we oughtta be allied with, Seeker,” Trystane said.

“This is very odd behavior for him… he has never been given to grandstanding and ambition,” the confusion and disappointment was evident in her expression. “Nevertheless, I agree. It is likely though that not all the templars agree with the actions of their leadership and may still be willing to help us.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps his anger has infected the mindset of the entire Order,” Solas retorted. There was no response as a frail, Orlesian voice spoke up.

“This victory must please you greatly, Seeker,” Hevara spoke with difficulty as she still kneeled on the wooden platform and regained her composure.

“Nobody forced you to make a spectacle of this,” the Seeker rebuked. “This is your own doing.” She motioned to the others. “Let us leave this place.”

On their way to the gate, however, they received two noteworthy message. The first, a letter born by a Loyalist mage, an invitation to the manor of the Duc de Ghislain for a soirée, sent by one Vivienne de Fer.  The other a cryptic note tied to an arrow that found itself embedded in the ground before the Herald’s feet.

One final surprise awaited them before they could exit the plaza. “Wait, Herald,” the party turned in unison to the worn-out, lightly accented Orlesian voice. “If I might have a moment of your time,” an elderly woman, elven, ducked out from the shadows. She was dressed in elaborate Orlesian mage-robes.

“Grand-Enchanter Fiona, this is a surprise,” Solas recognized the woman. “Leader of the mage rebellion.”

“Why are you here?” Cassandra asked dubiously. “Is it safe for you to be in Val Royaux?”

“No less than it is for you, I feel,” the woman answered. Her voice was tired. “I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes – if it’s aid with the Breach you seek, perhaps you would do better to look among your fellow mages.”

“Is that an offer, Grand Enchanter?” Trystane asked suspiciously. This was awfully convenient.

“A request. Come to Redcliffe; meet with the mages. We both have much to gain from an alliance. For now, I humbly take my leave.” With a nod to the Inquisition agents, she ducked into a side passage.

“How odd,” the Seeker noted after she was departed. “It seems we have much to discuss.”

***

The note led them on a scavenger hunt through the markets of Val Royaux; the Seeker was of a mind to ignore it, deeming it yet more _Orlesian foolishness_ – a phrase she was quite fond of – but something in Trystane’s intuition told him that these clues were worth following. They were scattered well, hidden in red handkerchiefs on the ground of a restaurant, a fisher’s dock, and on a balcony overlooking the plaza. Upon retrieving the final clue they were able to make their way to the final destination. It was evening, just past sunset, and they found themselves in a residential district, a small square set into the intersection of two alleys, and they were surprised to find hostile warriors in the square.

Two archers, two warriors. On instinct Trystane threw a barrier over himself and Cassandra as Solas did the same for himself and Varric. A fade step around a stack of crates and into the space of the first fighter; a flash of silver and the spear was thrust into his chest, retrieved and then the blunt end brought around to crack into the man’s skull. The impact flung him to the side before he could even react. The second warrior fared marginally better, bringing his shield to bear as the spear  spung back around and made for his side. The impact forced the man back and Trystane gathered mana into the muscles of his arms, knitting it into the barrier and feeling strength bubble up into him as he brought the blunt end of the spear up again with a resounding crash against the bottom edge of the soldier’s shield. The force of the blow wrenched it from his grasp and the shield was flung wide. In another instant the blade of the spear slashed across the man’s stomach and then found itself embedded in his chest.

                Trystane looked up from his two victims just in time to see Cassandra cut down the second archer, frozen where he stood by a well-placed Winter’s Grasp to his feet. The second was already a pincushion of bolts from Varric’s unique crossbow that he had affectionately named Bianca.

                “See? It is a trap, as I expected,” the Seeker sheathed her sword after wiping the blade on the trouser of her kill.

                “We’ve yet to see that for certain,” the Herald responded as he did the same with his spear. The only way through the square was a  wide blue gate set into the alleyway ahead. As he flung it open a bolt of flame flew past his head, almost catching his hair, close enough for the heat of it to flash across the Herald’s face. He narrowly dodged the second.

                “The Herald of Andraste,” a gravelly Orlesian accent spoke; it came from a masked mage, probably a noble one based on his refined clothing and the mask he wore in the latest style. He leaned into his spell with a flair, flinging the fire like a dart at a party. “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

                “Haven’t got any idea who you are,” Trystane answered, confusion and amusement written across his face. This mage might have been a danger to him with the element of surprise, but facing him head-on the Herald truly couldn’t take him seriously. “Cassandra? Any clues?” The Seeker didn’t respond, merely snorted in derision.

                “Impossible! I’m too important for this to be coincidence!” the masked man declared with the drama of an Orlesian opera.

                Then, as if this situation couldn’t get more ridiculous, a nasal Fereldan voice spoke up from behind the man and to his right; appearing from the alley was a slight elven girl, bow drawn and arrow already knocked. “Just say what,” she taunted.

                “What is the meaning of thi-” his protest was interrupted by an arrow abruptly embedded in his forehead.

                “Ugh! Squishy one,” the elf practically skipped to the mage’s corpse to retrieve her arrow, retrieving it with a wet pop as the arrowhead was pulled from the woud. “But you heard me, right? Just say what. Rich tits always try for more than they deserve,” she wiped the arrow on the man’s doublet before sliding it into a quiver on her hip. Getting a better look at her, she had sandy blond hair, cropped at the bange and hanging to her jawline along the sides of her face, framing it in a rather squared way. She was dressed in gaudy colors and patterns in red and yellow.

                “You’ve a way with words, that’s for sure,” Trystane chuckled. “I take it you’re the one who left the notes?”  
                “Sure am! Followed’em well enough. Name’s Sera. This is cover. Get round it – for the reinforcements?” She gave an impish laugh as she heard approaching footsteps, and indignant voices. “Someone tipped me their equipment shed; they’ve got no breeches!”

                Sure enough, as six warriors approached Trystane noted that they were truly pantsless and he couldn’t resist laughing as the bare-legged soldiers approached them with weapons drawn. He drew his spear and launched it at the first oncoming warrior; the blade landed with a sickening crunch in the man’s abdomen and the mage fade-stepped to him, retrieving the weapon and kicking him off of it. The man fell to the ground with a grasp and Trystane ducked the incoming blow of a greatsword, slipping under the swing of the blade and placing his hand against the man’s thigh – casting his magic into the man’s body, spells that were normally reserved for healing were turned against the man as the veins throughout his body burst under immense pressure and the man collapsed, dead instantly and blood streaming from his nose and eyes. The thud of an arrow’s impact nearby drew his attention and he saw that Sera had felled a third one, and on the opposite side of the courtyard Varric and  Solas had taken the fourth man. Cassandra was facing off against the final two, and Trystane cast a barrier over her just as a blade made for her arm, glancing instead off of the densely knit magic hovering over her.

                Trystane wasn’t much of a force mage but he was able to perform some of the basics in combat; he released just enough energy to knock one of the soldiers off-balance and give Cassandra the edge. Her sword struck into the man’s shoulder and a second slash cut through his neck as he fell. The final enemy warrior was felled by bolts and arrows from their two archers.

                “No breeches! That’s rich,” Trystane doubled over with laughter, joined by Sera and a chuckle from Varric.

                “Why didn’t you take their swords?” The Seeker asked, irate.

                Another impish cackle. “Because – _no breeches!_ ” Sera and the Herald managed to compose themselves and the mage extended his hand to the elf, who eyed it warily. “Oh no, I saw what you did to that bloke and I like my blood just where it is, thank’ya very much,” she said.

                Trystane shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said with a grin. “Do you know who this man is?” he asked gesturing to the slain mage.

                “Don’t know this tit from manners,” she shrugged. “My people said to look into him.”

                “Your people? Do you mean elves?” the Seeker asked and Sera’s face screwed into a scowl.

                “No, I mean _people_ people. But anyway, the important thing is – you glow? You’re the herald thingy?”

                Trystane raised his marked hand, the green light much more visible against the darkness of the courtyard. “I s’pose so. Didn’t think about it in those terms before. Why?”

                “I dunno, I expected… anyway, you’re just a man,” her tone was still light, vaguely taunting but there was a tinge of disappointment. “But… you’re a strange one, Herald. I want to join.”

                “First, can I ask you what you meant by people? And who you are?” this was met be an irritable sigh.

                “Right. Here, in your face, I’m Sera. Out there,” she gestured vaguely to the city, “I’m Red Jenny. I used people to help you. And arrows.”

                “People as in spies?” Varric suggested.

                “Here’s how it works…” Sera went on to explain, in very loose terms, that she was a Red Jenny, a collective sort of bogeyman to the nobles; informed by a collective networks of peasants, workers and the poor, she and others utilizing the pseudonym worked to punish nobles who treated their people unfairly or who took advantage of the poor. A lot of this was inference on Trystane’s part. Sera’s illustrative manner of speech, and her tendency to only state the important parts and let the listener make the connections themselves, made it difficult to understand for the others present.

                “Very well, Sera,” he said. “I’d like to work with you.”

                “Yes! Get in good now before you’re too big to like,” she grinned mischievously. “So where to?”

***

                Their second lead in Val Royaux, the invitation to the estate of the Duc de Ghislain, led to Trystane on the marble steps of a rather lavish mansion; the others had opted not to actually attend the party, particularly Sera, who had made her distaste for nobles abundantly clear. In the back of his mind, Trystane wondered if that would be problematic between them.

                As the son of the Teyrn Trevelyan of Ostwick, who possessed extensive political and financial connections abroad, but particularly with Antiva and Orlais, the Herald was loosely familiar with the Duc and his wife; he had even heard of the mage mistress of his, Vivienne de Fer. Before leaving the plaza of Val Royaux he had decided to buy something somewhat more appropriate for the venue, and was now dressed in glittering silver dress-mail, spear still strapped to his back, and black trousers and gloves. The mail shirt was tripped with black velvet. Being a Marcher, he hadn’t felt it necessary to buy a mask to attend the party, even though it was Orlesian custom, and as he strode into the wide and elegantly design foyer he was announced by a blonde masked seneschal.

                “Presenting Lord Trystane Trevelyan of Ostwick, Lord Herald of the Inquisition.” Trystane nodded to him and paced into the room where he was immediately addressed by an Orlesian couple, both masked and lavishly dressed.

                The man spoke first, with a delicate accent. “Welcome, Ser, it is so rare that we get to meet new people at these parties,”

                Trevelyan responded with a nod. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

                “Are you here on business? Are you a guest of the Duc, or Madame de Fer?” the woman inquired. “We have heard such tales of the Inquisition – we cannot imagine half of them are true.”

                When nobles were concerned, Trystane knew well, the truth was almost never important. He didn’t even care what they had heard; Nobles craved excitement in conversation and storytelling. With a roguish grin, he said “The stories you’ve heard? Completely true.”

                “Better and better,” the woman chirped approvingly. “The Inquisition should attend more of these parties!”

                “The Inquisition! What a load of pig shit.” Trystane looked to a small set of steps descending into the foyer, another masked nobleman gesturing to the Herald with bravado. “A bunch of washed-up Sisters and crazed Seekers. Nobody can take them seriously, everyone knows it’s a bunch of political outcasts trying to grab power.”

                “I’m hardly an outcast,” Trystane retorted. “And our goal is justice for the Divine and to seal the Breach. Any informed person ought to know that.”

                The man gave a disgusted grunt and shoved past him. “We know what you truly are,” he sneered. “If you were a man of honor, you would step outside and answer the charges…” he reached for a blade strapped to his waist, an ornamental dagger, and Trystane stepped back warily. Before anything more could happen, however, there was a snap of magic and cold and the man was frozen in place.

                “My dear Marquis, how dare you use such language in my house… to my guests,” a clear, refined voice pierced the air from behind the frozen offender. Vivienne de Fer, in white silk robes with an extravagant butterfly collar, descended the steps with an easy, confident gait. “You know such rudeness is… intolerable.”

                “Madame de Fer, I humbly beg you pardon…” the man squeezed out the words with difficulty, the ice charm on him making any more movement than his lips impossible.

                “As you should.” She turned from the Marquis to look at Trevelyan. “My dear, you are the wounded party in this affair – what would you have me do with him?”

                Trystane set his expression into a firm grimace. “He insulted the honor of my family as well as that of the Inquisition. I want him dead.”

                “And that, my dear Marquis, is why you should always be considerate of one’s fellow guests.” Vivienne chimed approval. With a gesture, the cold bit deeper into the man, rapidly freezing and shattering, leaving his frozen body on the floor. Vivienne motioned for Trystane to follow her, and he did into a side-chamber.

                “Madame de Fer, it is good to make your acquaintance,” he said as they settled into the moonlit room in front of a broad window. “I think you know my mother, the Lady Trevelyan.”

                “Ah, yes, Claire is such a dear,” Vivienne smiled. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed the party, but that isn’t why I’ve called you here. In such times as these, I fear that the Inquisition is our best hope to restore peace to our frightened people.” Trystane nodded agreement. “And as the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause,” she took a sip of wine from a chalice she had held gingerly.

                “I can imagine that you would be quite a formidable ally,” the Herald responded. “But I’m curious as to why such a well-positioned woman would want to work with declared heretics.”

                “Anyone with sense can see which way the wind blows. You’ve already established a strong position in the Hinterlands, and the story of the Herald of Andraste is growing like a wildfire. I feel strongly that not only does Thedas benefit if you succeed, but that I personally will benefit by helping you grow your Order,” she said with a sly grin.

                “Well, Lady Vivienne, the Inquisition accepts your offer,” Trystane declared with a slight bow.

                “Excellent, dear. I shall make my way to your base of operations in a few days. I have some matters to see to before I leave,” she grinned and Trystane made his way from the ballroom.

                Outside, he found Varric, Solas, Cassandra and Sera waiting outside the gates. “What happened? We heard something about a man being frozen to death?” Cassandra demanded as he drew close.

                “I’ve secured an alliance with Madame de Fer, leader of the Loyalist mages of Orlais,” the Herald reported. “The matter of the man being frozen… he insulted my honor and the Madame decided to make an example of him. She’s going to be quite helpful.” The Seeker nodded.

                “Very well. Let’s make our way back to Haven; we need to speak with Leliana and the others.”

***

                Cullen on a stool on the edge of the training ground, watching the trainees with tired eyes. He rubbed his temples, the beginnings of a migrain setting into the back of his skull. Trevelyan had arrived earlier that day, and the discussion had quickly turned heated. The Herald had succeeded in more ways than one: not only had he managed to scatter the convictions of the Grand Clerics in the public confrontation with the Lord Seeker, he had received an invitation to Redcliffe as well as the alliance of a Red Jenny and Lady Vivienne de Fer. While Cullen didn’t care for either of them, personally, he did understand that their help would be valuable. Particularly that of the former imperial court mage.

                In the time since the heated debate in the Chantry, he had yet to go speak with the Herald, who seemed to be doing his best to avoid Cullen and the other advisors. He spent a lot of time with Vivienne and his evenings were spent drilling alone or drinking with Varric and Sera. The man’s ability to get along with such a variety of people was frankly impressive to the grumpy ex-templar.

                Still, he had a sense of guilt for the Herald’s sudden avoidance of the key members of the Inquisition. It was no secret that he avoided himself as well as Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra, and he didn’t understand why. Looking to the edges of the practice field, he could see the mage-warrior sparring now with Lieutenant Dunlain. The two had taken to sparring together often, when the lieutenant didn’t have specific orders from the commander. Cullen took a moment to admire the flash of silver of Trevelyan’s spear, the lithe and graceful movement of his body in the flow of combat. Not only was he a practiced fighter, he was _refined_ , much like the weapon he wielded. Dunlain had been improving greatly from his time training with the man, even if the time they spent sparring made Cullen’s stomach knot uncomfortably in a way that confused him.

                On an impulse he got up from his seat and walked over to the dueling pair; on noticing his approach, Dunlain stopped to salute his commander, and Cullen didn’t notice the momentary interest that flashed across the Herald’s expression before it settled into a neutral line.

                “Commander,” Trevelyan greeted him.

                “Herald, Lieutenant,” Cullen nodded to them. “If you don’t mind, Herald, I was wondering if you would spar with me.” Dunlain seemed as surprised as the Herald did.

                “I don’t mind, Commander,” he said. “Dunlain’s gettin’ too predictable anyhow,” he taunted the lieutenant.

                “I could use some training, too. Don’t want to get rusty,” Cullen offered the unnecessary explanation for his request. He drew the sword from the belt at his waist and in a moment the lieutenant had grabbed his shield from the equipment tent.

                “You ready Commander?” Trevelyan said, tapping his spear to the ground and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he prepared. Cullen could feel excitement bubbling through his limbs and the beginnings of adrenaline in his veins. Momentarily he could forget the headache pooling in the back of his skull as he positioned himself opposite the Herald in his personal little training ring, brandishing his sword and shield.

                “When you are,” he grinned and brought his shield forward into the immediate lunge that Trevelyan launched with his spear; he noticed in passing the bluish shimmer of a barrier over their weapons. Such focus, to bring up the barrier in the exact moment that he struck.

                He deflected the next couple of attacks, Trevelyan probing his defenses and finding them much more adequate than those of the lieutenant. Unlike many warriors, Cullen was experienced enough that he didn’t treat his shield like an ornament in battle, nor did he hide behind it. In fact, he was skilled enough to bring it to bare in an offensive manner, striking forth with it to keep the agile sweeps of the spear at bay as he advanced. He knew that to decide this fight he had to close the distance between himself and the Herald, because if he closed the gap then the length of the weapon would become a hindrance to his opponent’s movement.

                Trevelyan was strong though, and the repeated impacts against his shield and his blade were already wearing on his arms. He didn’t know how that spear wasn’t broken already – he figured the mage-warrior probably reinforced it with magic somehow.

                He got his chance when Trevelyan overextended slightly, lunging forward to try to wedge his blade in the gap of Cullen’s defenses. A less experienced fighter might never have noticed it in time to take advantage of it, but Cullen swatted the spear down with his sword and practically leapt forward with his shield in hand, the wall of steel crashing into the mage’s shoulder and sending him sprawling. For most opponents, that would be the end of a match and Cullen confidently stepped forward, sword extended to Trevelyan.

                Instead, Trevelyan gave him a mischievous grin as he launched his legs into the air, _kicking_ the flat of the blade up as he continued the motion up and over himself, springing to his feet. “Well done, Commander,” he said as he brandished his fists.

                “You’ve got to be joking,” Cullen retorted flatly. “You’re unarmed!”

                “Then you’ve no reason to be scared,” the man said. He stepped quickly into Cullen’s space, feinting a jab only to duck aside as the commander swatted at him with the blade; he was thankful the mage was maintaining a barrier on the weapon, because he really didn’t want to injure him.  “Come on, Commander!” Trevelyan taunted.

                Cullen grinned – the man certainly had a way of getting under one’s skin – and advanced, not letting his guard down even against an unarmed opponent. Trevelyan allowed him to advance, eyeing him warily, until he lowered his shield to strike with a straight thrust. With unnerving agility Trevelyan side-stepped the blade, bringing his closed fist down on the Commander’s wrist, and hissing at the unexpected blow he dropped his blade. Next thing he knew Trevelyan had driving his knee into the commander’s chest, knocking the wind out of him and the commander stepped back, shield up.

                Trevelyan was now holding his sword, twirling it confidently. Cullen went red as he realized what had just happened.

                With a taunting grin and a nod, Trevelyan nodded to him and stepped forward, hilt first extending the blade towards Cullen. “Good show, Commander. Next time maybe you should take me seriously,” As Cullen took the blade back Trevelyan clapped him on the shoulder, his hand lingering just a little while before he turned away to retrieve his spear from where it lay on the ground.

                Dunlain, a few of the recruits who had watched the match, and above all, Cullen was at a loss for words as the Herald made his way up the slope to Haven’s front gate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald finds ways to occupy himself in between his forays throughout Thedas, putting his skills both as a warrior and a spirit healer to use. He also finds some other ways to pass the time in Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is NSFW content between Trystane and an OC in the last section of this chapter, if you don't want to read it then skip that section; it isn't necessary to read it to understand its later impact on the story. 
> 
> If you do read it, be forgiving because this is my first ever attempt at writing smut and maker it feels awkward.

Trystane found himself with two days to kill before his next foray into Thedas; he would be journeying northwest to the Storm Coast. Inquisition scouts were being pulled into a drawn-out conflict with a surprisingly organized bandit group, and on top of that they had been approached to meet the Iron Bull and his mercenary company. One of the Bull’s troops, a Tevinter warrior by the name of Cremisius Aclassi, had met him at the door of the Chantry with a proposition for the Herald to meet the company as they pursued a rumor of Tevinter smugglers on the coast. Whether they hired the Bull’s Chargers or not, it was a good lead.

The Herald of Andraste had done his best to find a way to be useful while in Haven aside from drilling and drinking, and he now found himself at the workshop of the apothecary, Adan. While Adan was technically only a herbalist, he had been previously the only one of notable healing skill in Haven, and so had his hands full tending to patients as well.

“You want to what now?” the apothecary said. He was a little rough around the edges, but Trystane had spent enough time around him to know that he was kind, if gruff. “What makes you qualified for that, exactly?”

“I’m trained as a spirit healer,” Trystane beamed at him. “And while I’m sure my alchemistry skills don’t hold a candle to yours ser I do know how to put together a few potions and poultices and I can help you keep stocked up.”

Absentmindedly, Adan scratched at the neck below his thick beard while he considered it. “Ah, fuckit. Maker knows I can use the help. Since you’re a spirit healer’n all, I want you to go to the sick ward and see what injuries there you can tend. Perhaps that way we can spare some potions.” Trystane nodded enthusiastically and made his way into the basement of the Chantry, where the basement and former prison had been converted into a makeshift sick ward. It was a key operation to keep the Inquisition’s growing base of agents and spies on their feet and roving god knows where on Leliana’s jobs.

He met Mother Giselle there, where she tended to a sick soldier. “Good afternoon, Lord Herald,” she said pleasantly as she dressed a gash on the man’s bicep. “What brings you here?”

“Afternoon, Mother Giselle. I’m here to help,” he nodded and scanned the room. Luckily the cots weren’t all full, but he did find a woman waiting for treatment, her left leg and abdomen both wrapped in a field dressing. He went to the cot where she rested and as she tried to rise, recognizing him, he placed a palm against her shoulder and gave her a reassuring grin. “Rest, you,” he said. “I’m a healer, let me help.”

With the woman’s nod he carefully unbound the wound on her abdomen; it was a stab wound that had slid between two ribs but had luckily missed anything vital. The bandage and the site of the injury were crusted in dried blood and pus, and he first set about cleaning it with damp rags and diluted vinegar. Once that was done, he set his hands a few centimeters above the wound and felt a familiar warmth bubble up through his core, cascading through his limbs and through his palms. There were fewer spirits around, so close to the breach, but he was able to reach out to one and call upon its aid.

His magic spread throughout the wound, finding the torn edges and missing bits, and he went to work, knitting flesh and muscle together as warm golden light filled the air beneath his outstretched palms.

Healing magic had always come naturally to him; he didn’t understand why. Varanel, his tutor, had told him that mages had an affinity for the kind of magic that suited them, that he was kindred to kind spirits. It also explained, in Varanel’s opinion, the man’s lack of aptitude for the classic magical aptitudes. Trystane had no skill with lightning, frost and fire beyond the very basics, and the same went for force magic and other forms of energy projections. Varanel had told him he was too empathic, always in tune to the state of others around him. It translated well into sympathetic magics, where the key was to affect something by establishing a connection of similarity or understanding.

Finished cleaning and attending to her wounds, Trystane re-bound them in clean bandages and ordered the scout to rest for what was left of the day, just to be certain not to undo the effects of his magic. He then turned to the next patient, a man who Adan had said was suffering from an imbalance of bile, and set to work. In this manner the next several hours passed, and he started to feel that he had found a role where he could help outside of being the Herald.

***

Later that evening he found himself in the training ground, where he had come to spend the bulk of his time in Haven. He didn’t have a sparring partner, nor anything in particularly to drill. To be honest, he was just killing time before he went to the Herald’s Rest for supper. Cullen, he had noted, was scowling over a stack of reports at his tent on the sidelines of the field. He wondered why the templar didn’t have a proper office as he paced back and forth along the outskirts of the field, his spear hovering in the air over his open palm, twirling gently and absentmindedly with lazy gestures of his hand. Without much intention he found his footsteps carrying him to the Commander’s tent, leaning on his spear in front of the aperture and looking at the blonde sifting through missives.

“Your face’ll be fixed that way forever if you don’t loosen up, Commander,” he smirked at the start he elicited from the man.

“If only I could choose to ignore them,” the man said sarcastically. Trystane thought the commander’s tone was somewhat bitter.

“Come now Commander, you can’t still be sore from our match,” he chuckled and noticed the momentary confusion, followed by understanding and then awkwardness flit through the man’s expression; the Fereldan had difficulty hiding his emotions, clearly.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to give you that impression, Herald,” he said nervously and set down the leaflet in his hand.

“Trystane, please, Commander. You don’t have to call me Herald,” it was his turn to sound sore.

“If you call me Cullen,” the blonde almost grinned. Trystane flashed him a bright smile without missing a beat.

“Well now that we’re on a first name basis, Cullen, how’s about you have drinks with me at the Herald’s Rest?”

“I-“ judging by his tone, he was clearly about to say no and Trystane allowed his face to fall just slightly. Cullen stopped in his tracks, coughing to cover it up. “I suppose I could. I haven’t eaten anything yet.”

“Good! Hunters brought in venison, I hear,” he smiled and gestured for Cullen to follow him. “Maybe in something more casual, Cullen,” he suggested teasingly, looking at the daunting fur mantle and armor of the commander.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cullen retorted. “Who would even recognize me without this on?” After a realizing that the Commander was, indeed, joking, Trystane snorted in laughter.

“My that’s rich,” Trystane said as Cullen smiled slightly to his reaction. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?” At that the blonde flushed and reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, and the Herald could see him figuring out how to respond; _who’d’ve thought that such a big strong man could be flustered so easily,_ he thought warmly. “Although…” he continued, “I wouldn’t mind seein’ you out of it.”

There was just enough suggestion in his tone for Cullen to get it – or start to get it – and the red of his cheeks and neck deepened. “I,uh…” he trailed off as he fought for his composure. “Perhaps I should go put on something a little lighter.”

“Alright, Cullen, I will see you at the Rest in a moment,” Trystane didn’t know how to process Cullen’s behavior; what he had intended as some very light teasing, bordering perhaps on flirting, had gotten the man flustered and nervous. He had expected the stone-faced commander to deflect it like a clumsy sword-stroke, and he worried that perhaps what Cullen might perceive as advances, from a man no less, might put him off.

The Commander nodded quickly and darted towards his cabin, seemingly eager to make his leave. He watched the blonde walk off, suddenly concerned that he might make the man uncomfortable. Trystane knew that rumors of his tendencies, so to speak, had circulated the small community to an extent; he also knew that while many of the nations of Thedas didn’t frown on men seeking the company of men, Ferelden was awfully reserved about that kind of thing. Perhaps Cullen was the kind of man to think it _unnatural_.

Trystane made his way to his own cabin, deciding to ditch the spear and the light armor he wore in favor for something lighter. At the same time he quelled the unease pooling in his stomach, telling himself that fretting about it was wasted energy; he hadn’t exactly propositioned Cullen anyhow. He scanned through his limited wardrobe, wishing he had his closet in Ostwick, and decided on a linen tunic, black with silver trim, over a cotton undershirt and carded wool trousers, grey. He belted his tunic with a broad scarf of a deep red reminiscent of wine and made his way to the inn. On a whim he untied his hair, shaking it loose as he walked and combing the silver strands into order, letting it cascade down his back and over his shoulders.

***

Cullen arrived to the inn quickly after discarding his coat and armor, redressing himself in a cotton jacket and breeches. The Herald – Trystane – hadn’t made it there yet, and he figured that perhaps the man had decided to change his clothes as well. He had spent the entirely day in mail, after all. He sat at a corner table, leaning on the heavy wood as the barmaid, Flissa, approached him. He ordered a mug of ale and sat back, suddenly feeling exposed alone in the inn.

That didn’t last long, however, as the Herald entered the inn like a breeze, calling out to Flissa as he made his way to Cullen after finding the lone warrior at his table. “Well now, that’s much better, if you don’t mind my sayin’,” Trevelyan hummed as he sat opposite him. His hair was loose, Cullen noted, perhaps the first time he had seen it not pulled into a ponytail. It really was a brilliant shade of silver and the way it shifted as the Herald got comfortable made it catch the light, almost rippling.

“Yes, I suppose it’s rather warm in here for a fur,” Cullen replied after only a slight pause. He cast his glance aside and saw Flissa approach with two mugs.

“Oh my, the Commander and the Herald both eating in my inn!” She cooed cheerfully, tone tinged with nerves around the edges. “Let me bring you some venison steak – fresh from the hunters this morning!” Cullen saw the edges of Trystane’s lips curve into a cheerful grin.

“Good lass!” he practically cheered. “That’ll be grand,” he added as the barmaid blushed and turned to flee.

There was another slight pause – outside of the war room and the training ground, it occurred to Cullen that he didn’t really know Trevelyan all that well. Apparently, the same thing occurred to the silver-haired man, as he leaned into a deep swig of ale before speaking up before Cullen could make up his mind to.

“Now Cullen, I’d like to get to know you a little better,” he said with a grin.

“And I you…” Cullen’s response was tentative. He hoped that Trevelyan wouldn’t notice his reluctance to meet his gaze. He felt weirdly emboldened around the young Marcher, and he felt himself slipping into he casual conversation with more ease than he might have expected. “But what would you like to know?”

“Well, let’s start with the basics. Where are you from? I can tell by your accent you’re Fereldan,” Trystane’s gaze was intent on him and Cullen found himself drawn in.

“I’ve no illustrious background, Lord Trevelyan,” he found himself responding with a smirk. “I’m a farmer’s son, born in Honnleath, near Redclidde, where I lived until I joined the templars. I left when I was thirteen,” he took a swig of his ale. He continued, finding Trevelyan to be an excellent listener. With gently probing questions and the occasional affirmation, he prompted the ex-templar to tell him about how he had grown up the second of four children, about Mia, Branson and Rosalie and their modest farm. He told the Marcher about how he had grown up admiring the templars, and at eight years old he had begged the templars of the local chantry to teach him everything they could.

“At thirteen, they sponsored my joining the Order, helped me to convince me parents to let me go. And so I left for the Fereldan Circle in Kinloch Hold.”

“That’s somewhat old for a templar initiate,” Trystane remarked. “Can’t help but notice that we both got a late start. My magic didn’t manifest until I was fourteen, much later than many children’s.”

“I was a few years older than the other initiates, yes,” the commander admitted. “But I was determined to bridge that gap, and I did. I devoted myself, body and soul, to the training. It was rigorous but I caught up to the others my age within a couple of years. Knight-Commander Gregoire had even told me once that I had surpassed his expectations, given my age. I was so proud to hear him say that.”

“It’s no surprise to me,” Trevelyan said warmly. “You’re quite the determined man, it seems.”

“I, uh,” Cullen had to stop himself from habitually scratching at the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. “I try my best, Herald.” He was unused to someone praising him so openly.

“Trystane,” the other scolded him gently.

“Now why don’t you tell me about yourself? Here I’ve been talking nonstop,” Cullen flushed as he realized that he had indeed taken up most of their conversation talking about himself; their steaks were finished at they were both a couple of mugs into their ale. It was unusual for him to even begin to open up in this way.

“Oh, I’m sure our Madame Ambassador has told you all the important bits,” Trystane chuckled, though it was almost a sigh. “I’m the son of Teyrn Trevelyan of Ostwick, the youngest of three children. I’m sure she’s probably mentioned that I was never sent to a Circle, so for a long time I was technically an apostate,” he almost looked nervous as he told Cullen that. Cullen had already known, however, and it wasn’t even that surprising considering his social status.

“I’m just surprised you never got caught,” Cullen said, jokingly, grinning until he saw Trevelyan’s expression falter, only momentarily.

“Aye, me too. Had one close call, but that’ll be a story for another day,” Trystane glazed over the topic. Cullen was suddenly curious to know the story behind that reaction, but he chose not to pry. “I had a tutor, a Dalish mage whose clan stayed near the city. It was a fortunate arrangement; his clan had too many mages and ma was desperate for a way to teach me to control my magic, so I wouldn’t have to go to the Circle.”

“The Ostwick Circle is quite… tame… so I’m told,” Cullen asked neutrally.

“Compared to most, it was,” Trystane responded. “Especially compared to Kirkwall’s, but it still ain’t a life my parents wanted for me.” Cullen’s face fell at the mention of Kirkwall’s Circe. “I’m sorry Cullen – I forgot you were stationed there previously. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, you’re right, the Circle in Kirkwall was wretched. If it’s alright with you, I prefer not to speak of it.”

“Of course,” Trevelyan nodded. They both drank in silence for a moment and Cullen racked his brain for a more pleasant topic. He was about to make some comment about the Herald’s coming mission on the Storm Coast when, again, Trevelyan spoke up first. “So, Cullen, have you got.. anyone in your life right now?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he asked as nerves pulled at his stomach.

“I meant, perhaps, romantically- nevermind. Was only curious,” Trevelyan flushed and leaned back, hiding his face behind a deep swig of ale. He dropped the empty mug to the table and called out for Flissa to bring him another one.

“That’s alright, Trevelyan,” he responded slowly. “I don’t – I haven’t been good company,” he exhaled slowly, “for a long time.”

***

Trystane gratefully accepted the full mug from Flissa as he mentally scolded himself. What was he _doing_ , asking Cullen about his love life? He’d been curious, of course, and until the question tumbled from his fool lips he had thought it would sound harmless. Cullen’s response elicited an odd pressure in his chest as he realized that the Commander wasn’t with anyone.

He wasn’t an absolute fool, he caught himself staring after Cullen more often than he ought to, found himself in the training grounds when he had no reason to be, often hoping to run into the man. He told himself, however, that this was probably just a meaningless crush; there was no reason to expect that Cullen might return the advances of a man.

He must have had too much ale, because despite his embarrassment he found himself blurting out, “I might enjoy your company, Commander.”

Cullen flushed, face frozen and Trystane could have sworn he could see the gears turning behind the blonde’s amber eyes. He could feel a knot tightening in his stomach as he braced for rejection.

“I, uh… I would value your friendship. I cannot offer you more; I hope you understand.” Trystane didn’t know whether to feel relieved or crushed. He had expected a much more violent, angry reaction. Particularly from a Fereldan man, and an ex-templar to boot. But the relief was only momentary; he was definitely crushed.

“Of course,” he said with a tense smile, beating his nerves and his expression into submission. He was suddenly ready for this to end. “My apologies, commander, that must have been the ale talking. If you don’t mind… excuse me,” he said as he got up stiffly and set his half-full mug on the table. Cullen was quiet as he watched Trevelyan duck out of the tavern.

In his cabin, Trystane flung the door shut behind him forcefully, rubbing his eyes with fists as he fought back tears he was surprised to find welling at the corners of his eyes. “God, why did I do that,” he whined loudly to nobody in particular as he changed into his sleeping clothes and collapsed on the bed. He wanted to blame the ale but couldn’t, really. The Trevelyans had a reputation for holding their drink well.

So, the ex-templar didn’t want him. Whether it was because he was a man or a mage, or if it was him specifically, he had to let it go. Trystane had to acknowledge that he had been holding out hope, his minor infatuation with the gruff warrior growing into something slightly more without his knowing. On top of this, he remembered with irritation that after helping Adan he had promised to begin to teach a few recruits the basics of wielding a spear; the Commander had decided, and apparently Cassandra and Leliana agreed, that diversifying the skills of their fighters would benefit the growing Inquisition forces, and so they had approached him about beginning to work with a small squad of recruits. Despite his initial eagerness to serve, his excitement had abruptly dissipated.

_Something to deal with tomorrow,_ he thought as he let himself slip into sleep.

***

Before him stood a meager squad of six raw recruits – four young men and two women from the area surrounding Redcliffe village, who had joined after seeing the good work that the Inquisition had begun there. They were outfitted in light armor, standard for Inquisition scouts, and each one had been given a spear of the most basic kind; a straight wooden pole with a small iron tip affixed to the end. They were lightweight but not particularly sturdy weapons; they would suffice for the purposes of training.

He had skillfully avoided the Commander when he came into the training grounds, instead going through Dunlain to notify Cullen that he had arrived to work with the recruits. He could feel, however, the gaze of the templar occasionally falling on him as he addressed the men – now _his_ men. Trystane suddenly felt unsure about his ability to train anyone.

“Alright, recruits,” began, “Before we begin, I want to know who here has wielded a spear before, even for hunting,” two hands went up: Recruits Richter and Gandry. They then informed him that they had used spears only for hunting boars in the vicinity of their village.

“We’re starting from the beginning, then,” he said. “Forget what you think you know when it comes to fighting with a spear – the rules are different, the flow of battle unique compared to other weapons. The spear is deadly when used effectively, but if you think it’s just about stickin’ the enemy in the gut, you’re dead.” He brandished his spear, not failing to notice the reaction it elicited from the recruits – it was an impressive weapon, Silverite with ivory grips and runes etched into the blade. Even without its magic dual-purpose it was an inspiring weapon to look at.

Trystane spent the next couple hours instructing them in the very basics, setting them sufficiently apart from each other that there was no risk in them accidentally stabbing one another. Beginning with the stance, he showed them the essential tenets of fighting with the spear. “This is what you must know, always,” he called as the recruits attempted to mirror his stance; one leg forward and the other slightly back, stance wide and staggered to control the center of gravity, and weight carried on the balls of the foot. “The spear is about fighting at mid-range. That means you must never, ever let your enemy close rank with you, because if they get past your guard you are finished. The length of this weapon is an advantage at mid-range, but it is difficult to maneuver if they close in on you.” He then demonstrated this with each recruit in turn, wielding a sword instead of his spear, letting them do their best to keep him at a distance until inevitably he would simply sideswipe their weapon and swiftly close the gap. Each time the recruit would awkwardly fumble with their spear, trying to bring it to bear within the limited space between them to no avail.

Trystane decided that pouring his effort into drills was at least more productive than wasting his energy pining; he stuffed his conflicted emotions into the corners of his mind and concentrated at the task at hand.

***

 

Cassandra and Cullen watched from the near end of the training field, the Seeker almost impressed. It had been a few hours since they began and there was marked improvement. Cullen thought it was almost comical to compare the recruits stuttered, unsure movements to the seemingly effortless grace of the Herald’s fighting style.

“He’s doing a better job than I expected,” the Seeker begrudgingly admitted. “Within weeks, I think we’ll see them getting good enough for deployment.”

“If he can get them to his level of skill, they’ll be quite the asset to the whatever squads they end up with,” Cullen agreed. They continued to watch in silence, the clatter of their own recruits working with the lieutenants seeming to be background noise.

Cullen had a lot of mixed feelings at the moment; most of which had been elicited by Trevelyan’s possibly drunken line of questioning the night before. He knew he wasn’t attracted to the man in that way – never had desired the company of men, generally. Additionally the man was a mage. With Cullen’s own history with the Circles of Ferelden and Kirkwall, his feelings about mages were complicated. It was difficult to fight the hatred of mages that the fall of Kinloch Hold had taught him, feelings that had been reinforced in Kirkwall. Since then he had actively sought to combat this mindset, but even given that he had been surprisingly drawn to the Herald.

Perhaps it was that the man was very different when compared to many magic-users. He was more of a warrior than anything, and only circumstance had changed that. What conflicted him the most was the fact, in and of itself, that he was conflicted about it at all. Paradoxical, but there you go. Past advances by men he had always rebuffed without a second thought, and yet he found his thoughts lingering on that moment in which he had watched the color drain from Trevelyan’s expression, seen his once-playful expression fall only briefly before being reigned in with considerable effort.

“Something is troubling you, Commander,” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. The Seeker had always been blunt, even if she was a perceptive woman. “Did something happen between you two?”

“What? No, it’s nothing,” he reassured her. “I’m tired, simply.”

“Very well, Cullen,” she sighed. “I will take my leave. The Herald is leaving in the morning and of course that means that I am to be dragged to the Storm Coast with him,” she left abruptly as Cullen chuckled. Despite her reservations, he could sense the Seeker becoming almost comfortable with Trevelyan.

He turned back to his duties with some reluctance, stealing another glimpse of silver glinting in crisp mountain light.

***

That night, Trystane found himself at the inn sipping mulled wine that he had requested of Flissa to make. Passing guilt had told him he was abusing his position as the Herald to get what he wanted, but he supposed there were ultimately many worse ways to abuse power than to get some hot wine. He had been here for an hour already and was a few mugs into the sweet, citrusy beverage that was beginning to sit cloyingly on the edges of his mind, and he didn’t notice the templar lieutenant, Dunlain, seated beside him until the man addressed him.

“Drinking alone tonight, Herald?” he asked. He had a low, gravelly voice with a Fereldan accent. Trevelyan turned to him, mug to his lips as he appraised the man before he responded. He was well built, all templars were, with tanned skin and dirty blonde hair cropped close to his skin; his beard was trimmed short and he could smell ale on the man’s breath.

“Not anymore,” he grinned and winked at the Fereldan.

It wasn’t long before they made their way to Trevelyan’s cabin. It was the kind of tryste that the Herald was well-accustomed to; breathless grinding in the dark, drunken fumbling and too much teeth, but it was what he wanted at the moment. Dunlain was on top of him, straddling him as he pulled Trystane’s tunic off in the moment that their lips parted before they came crashing together. He palmed the bulge at the templar’s crotch, breathlessly whispering what he wanted into the man’s ear and in response he felt rough hands come to his trousers, yanking them down to his feet where he kicked them unceremoniously to the floor. Dunlain removed his quickly, freeing his cock from its restraining fabric. Trystane took it immediately in hand, giving it a few deft strokes against his center.

Dunlain’s teeth sank roughly into the skin where his neck met his shoulder, hands roughly gripping his arse and spreading it, kneading the muscle there as he scooped Trystane up and set him onto the templar’s lap, cock pressed against his entrance. With a motion Trystane brought a vial of oil flying from his trunk and into his hand, giving it to the templar who rubbed his cock slick with it before oiling up Trystane’s entrance, inserting a finger to tease it loose. Trystane bucked against his hand, drawing it deeper into himself. It had been too long since he’d gotten to do this and _Maker_ did he enjoy it. Before long he felt Dunlain insert a second finger, scissoring the two to stretch the muscle there and Trystane did his best to stifle a moan.

Removing his hand, the templar lined up his cock, slick from oil, against the waiting entrance and slid in, pumping in and out slowly, allowing Trystane to adjust. This might not be emotional for them, per se, but they both wanted to enjoy it, and before long he felt Trystane’s hands gripping at the sides of his thighs, urging him to pick up the pace. He took the Herald of Andraste’s cock in his hand, stroking it in time to his own thrusts, eliciting stifled whimpers from the man.

It wasn’t long before they both reached the edge, the templar climaxing first and Trystane finishing as he felt the hot sensation fill him to the brim. As with most encounters of this nature, the aftermath was quick and silent as they both toweled off, the templar slipping out of the cabin and into the night. Feeling sated, Trystane settled comfortably into his bed, only thinking in passing that he would regret this in the morning when they left on horseback as he fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and his companions encounter the Blades of Hessarian, and the Bull's Chargers join the Inquisition.

The journey to the Storm Coast was punishing in more ways than one. It was a week’s ride to the forward camp where they were scheduled to rendez-vous with Scout Harding, and once they got within a couple days of their final destination they had to endure the brutal namesake of the region. The stretch of coast was verdant and green, practically untamed in its mountainous terrain, wild fauna, and unrelenting thunderstorms. In other ways, the first day of the journey was unrelenting to his soreness from the previous night’s _activities_ , so to speak.

In spite of the terrain and weather, the work of relentless Inquisition scouts left them a path that was relatively devoid of unexpected interruptions, and so it was with rather good timing that they came into the Inquisition forward camp, only a mile or so from the area where scouts had been going missing.

Scout Harding was one of the few dwarves in the Inquisition’s ranks, and she was quickly becoming an invaluable asset as a skilled forward scout. She had formerly cleared the way for their meeting with Mother Giselle and here on the Storm Coast she had come to investigate the disappearance of her fellow scouts in the area. Upon the Herald’s arrival to the camp along with Seeker Cassandra, Sera, and Varric, she was ready to deliver her report.

“Lord Herald,” she greeted the group as Trystane dismounted, followed by his companions. Solas had opted to remain in Haven, citing research that he was performing on the mark; Madame de Fer had yet to arrive in haven, and somehow Trystane felt that she might have not enjoyed some of the present company. “I’m glad you’re here. This situation is…” she gestured to the thick foliage and jagged hillside, “Out of hand. Scouts have gone missing, likely in conflict with a bandit gang. They call themselves the Blades of Hessarian.”

“How bold of them to choose such a name,” Cassandra huffed. “When it is meant to be a symbol of mercy.”

“Rumor has it the Blades have recently come under new leadership, and that he is taking the group in a violent direction,” Harding warned. “But I have some more intel on them; they have a weird set of traditions, one of which we found a note on. Apparently, you can challenge their leader if you have what they call the Mercy’s Crest, and I’ve taken the liberty of having one made while we awaited your arrival.” She fished out an odd amulet, bright green serpentstone set into reptile leather. Trystane took it and set it around his neck. “It’s your choice whether to challenge him or not – but it might be worthwhile.”

“It would be smart to try to not fight and _entire bandit camp_ if we can avoid it, Silver,” Varric suggested, and Sera seconded that.

“I agree with Varric,” Cassandra said. “And if Harding is correct, then their leader is the one to blame for this in any event.” Trystane nodded and turned his attention back to Harding.

“And the Bull’s Chargers?” he prompted.

“Ah, yes. Interesting group. They’re camped nearby, ready to hit a Tevinter smuggling operation whenever you’re ready.”

Trystane felt slight chills run down his spine. _Tevinter_. It was practically a curse in Southern Thedas, but particularly so in the Free Marches, where much of the legacy of the former Empire of Tevinter scarred the countryside. Kirkwall was the most prominent, where the Tevinter slave port had been converted into a Circle, and Tevinter fortresses still stood. He had never met anyone from the country before, and only knew what he had heard in rumors.

It was a land of vast inequality and slavery, and quite famous as the only land in Thedas where mages held political power. In fact, in Tevinter the social order of the rest of Thedas was practically upended, where the Circles were strongholds of political power, mages ruled the masses, and the Divine was a man. This is without even broaching the rumors of rampant blood magic among the elite of the nation. For many in Fereldan, Orlais and the Free Marches, it was an example to point towards with a condescending finger and a whispered _this is what happens when mages have free reign_.

He was eager to keep their influence from Fereldan borders.

“Very good. Thank you, Scout Harding,” he acknowledged before turning to his companions. “Are we ready to go now?”

Everyone nodded; they were fairly rested, given that their journey had been on horseback. “I suggest you go on foot,” Harding mentioned. “There are no roads through this stretch of coast and the terrain will be more punishing on your mounts. We can tend them here.”  With this last piece of advice, they moved out.

***

The camp of the Blades of Hessarian was formidable and well-positioned. After a brief run-in with some of their rangers, they had crested a narrow hill only to look down onto the camp; it was nested in between two of the taller hills and backed by a mountain, so that the only avenue of approach was the front, and it was fenced on all sides by a massive palisade whose spikes extended perhaps twenty feet into the air. They had descended a narrow footpath that was less a formal path and more of a channel through which rain ran down the hillside; in either event it gave them some semblance of purchase on the steep slope and prevented them from tumbling all the way down to the front gates of the camp.

As they approached, Trystane removed the Mercy’s Crest and held it high above his head, in plain view of the two guards that flanked the heavy wooden gate, and remarked to himself that they seemed remarkably organized and established for a bandit group.

“Declare your intentions, stranger,” called one of the guards, a squat muscle-bound woman, as they drew near.

“We are representatives of the Inquisition,” Trystane called in reply. “We are here to answer the deaths of our scouts; I wish to duel your leaeder.”

“You want a duel?” the other guard, a bearded Fereldan with a thick accent, was incredulous. Then, to his companion: “He’s got the Crest, I suppose we have to let him.”

“I suppose so.”

“No one else has succeeded,” he said. Then he turned back to the Inquisition squad. “Very well, we meet your challenge. You may enter, but only one of you is to duel our leader. Those are our terms.”

Without hesitation, Trystane stepped forward. “I will duel on behalf of the Inquisition,” he announced as he ignored the irritated groan coming from the Seeker.

With this, the group was led into the camp accompanied by a growing sense of apprehension. It wasn’t unlike bandits, they all thought, to simply kill them if they won the duel. They were brought before the leader of the Blades of Hessarian, a mabari of a man standing a head taller than the Herald, thick-set with a bristly black beard, long untamed hair, and a ruddy complexion. He brandished a war hammer with an aggressive grunt, setting the intimidating weapon on his shoulder.

“So you’re the one who’s come to challenge me on behalf of your dead?” he barked, followed by a raucous laugh. “I suppose the Inquisition is a joke after all.” He gave Trystane a once-over as the man angled his spear, quiet and confident.

“Herald, perhaps you should let me-” Cassandra began only to a surprisingly abrupt interruption.

“I’ve got this, Seeker, don’t you worry yourself over me,” Trystane said, his expression set into a grim smirk. With this the two fighers began to circle each other, pacing in front of a stone Andrastian altar and between rows of mabari kennels – behind Trystane, his companions watched with apprehension and the Blades looked on with expectation.

The brute of a man swung his hammer in a broad arc, parallel to the ground, side-swiping in an attempt to catch Trystane’s side. He stepped back deftly, the hammer passing just in front of his stomach. The disadvantage to a war hammer, however, was timing; as the bandit leader stopped the arc of the axe, Trystane stepped forward into his space, spinning his spear in two circular arcs; in response to flashing silver the bandit grunted in pain as the blade slashed through the skin of his left thigh and right bicep, the Herald stepping back again to avoid another hit, this one a vertical hit that impacted the ground where he had stood. He spun around the arc, bracing the spear against his back and stabbing into his opponent’s left arm, the wound only mitigated by leather armor cupping the shoulder. The war hammer swung again, this time a diagonal from its position on the ground, surprisingly swiftly up towards his head, and he stepped back again out of range of the attack. An angry howl wrenched from the throat of the brute as he went into a frenzy, fueling a wild set of swings with his pain and adrenaline. Trystane, having little time to counter attack, evaded the flying strokes of the hammer as he gauged his opponent for an opening. That is, until he was backed up against the stone alter, a bowl of ritual flame at his back.

“Where you gonna dodge to now, you poncy fucker?!” The bandit raged, spittle flying from his barbaric maw. He brought the hammer to bare one more time, a horizontal swipe that the Herald had little chance of dodging.

The grooved metal of the hammer collided with the flesh of his forearm with a resounding smack, stopping in its tracks against the surprising force; Trystane grunted with the impact, mana flowing over his arm and into it, protecting him from the blow and reinforcing his strength. With audible effort he swiped the hammer to his side, face contorted with the pain of impact, and with his free hand he launched the spear into the chest of the stunned berserker.

The spear tore through leather and into the man’s chest cavity with a wet crunch and the main howled in pain, dropping the hammer and sinking to his knees. Trystane drew the spear from his chest, a spray of blood released by the motion, and stepped back as he watched the giant of a man collapse and the color drain from his face. He nonchalantly wiped his spear on the grass at his feet and inspected his arm; it would need his attention in a moment, but for now he carefully controlled his reaction as he eyed his companions and, beyond them, the Blades who remained silent.

None of the Inquisition members were prepared for the response – as a blonde man in light leather armor stepped forward, the remaining members of the Blades of Hessarian _kneeled_ , fists over chests, heads tilted to the ground.

“Our Lord Herald, to the victor go the spoils,” the man’s voice was surprisingly polished for a bandit – he sounded more like a Marcher than a Fereldan – “Namely, the Blades of Hessarian are yours now. While you lead us, we pledge our swords to the Inquisition,” he finished with a sweeping bow.

“Just like that? What of your fallen leader?” Cassandra was, understandably suspicious.

“He was a vicious mongrel who had corrupted our purpose,” the man sneered. “We are proud to pledge ourselves to a worthier master.”

“Very well,” Trystane said before Cassandra could ruin it. “We are honored to have you. If possible, I want you to send a liaison to Haven.” The man nodded.

“As Your Worship commands,” he said and ducked away with another small bow. The gathered Blades stood and returned to whatever duties they had previously been tending.

“That was… probably the best possible result of this conflict,” Cassandra said, still a little dazed. “But what of your arm? To block a war hammer with your forearm – I am surprised it isn’t obliterated, you fool.”

Trystane grinned. “Are you worried? I knew you liked me, Seeker,” he said playfully and raised his throbbing arm in front of him. A golden aura began to surround it and warmth spread throughout the injured limb. The pain began to subside immediately leaving a dull throbbing in its place. “Ain’t perfect, but it’ll be good as new in a day, minus some bruisin’. If it weren’t for me bein’ a mage, that would’ve destroyed my arm for sure,” he chuckled.

“And he _laughs_. The madman,” Varric said with a dramatic sigh and a grin.

“That’s all well and good innit, but if we’re done here then I’m ready to get out of this pish!” Sera whirled to the exit and made her way out ahead of the others.

***

Their strategy meetings were starting to feel incomplete without Trevelyan there, in the times he was away from Haven. At the same time, Cullen wasn’t sure if it would be awkward otherwise, his rejection of the Herald’s advances still bouncing around his skull. It would be a gross understatement to say that the Commander was still confused. Leliana, Josephine and he had all but wrapped up when Leliana mentioned that they had one final matter to discuss.

“It’s about the Herald,” she began and Cullen’s stomach twisted uncomfortable. “One of my agents overheard Dunlain bragging to his fellow templars about bedding Trevelyan.”

Cullen’s stomach sank, to his surprise and even he could feel his face falling into a grimace. “And?” he asked with sudden frustration to his tone.

“While it isn’t necessarily any of our business who he… passes time with,” she said delicately, “we might want to speak with him about being more discrete. He has a reputation to consider. He is being called the Herald of Andraste, and no small portion of our support comes from that reputation.”

“It is true that many might doubt the Herald if he becomes the target of such rumors,” Josephine said. “I agree that we should caution him against such casual trysts.”

“Who the man beds is none of our concern,” Leliana and Josephine were surprised at the anger in his tone. “It’s certainly no concern of mine,” his gaze was fixated on the map and he felt heat rising to his face, tension growing in the muscles of his neck.

“It is a minor matter, Cullen, I assure you,” Josephine said with confusion written across her expression. “We have no intention of controlling who he courts,”

“Then why bring it up like a pair of idle gossips?” he snapped.

“Cullen, why does this bother you so?” Leliana asked. She looked at him with an intent, analytical eye. “Is it because they are men? Or perhaps because he is a mage? I thought you had left such prejudices in Kirkwall.” With that, the Commander deflated a little, shoulders falling.

“I,” he began. “It is not that. I just don’t like gossiping about Trevelyan.”

“I see,” she said with a neutral tone. “Let’s ignore this then; I am sure the matter will resolve itself. Perhaps this is a good place to stop?”

“Agreed,” Josephine sighed, and Cullen gave a curt nod.

***

They made excellent time to the rendez-vous with the Bull’s Chargers; the mercenary group had just engaged a group of Tevinter soldiers and instantly identifiable was Iron Bull himself, a huge Qunari man, aptly named for the brutal, angular horns jutting out from his temples. The Tevinter warriors, aided by one mage and a few archers, didn’t see the approach of the Inquisition fighters and were taken by surprise; their mage had set up defensive glyphs and was beginning to establish control of the fight, even given that his warriors were being decimated by the coordinated efforts of the Chargers. Trystane fade stepped over the glyphs and directly into the mage’s space, a spear embedded in his chest before he could retaliate. He kicked the corpse off if his blade before bringing the silver spear flashing around, the blade tearing through the mage’s neck as he fell.

The fight was over in mere moments as Cassandra, Varric and Sera moved to reinforce the chargers, the Seeker tearing into Tevinter warriors like a whirlwind and the archers picked off quickly. Once it was all said and done, Trystane noticed that the mercenaries went around checking the corpses, slitting their throats. When one, who Trystane recalled as Cremisius Aclassi, reached the mage, he said “Hey boss, looks like the Herald beat us to this one!”

The Qunari in question sidled up to the inquisitor, war axe settled onto his muscular shoulders; in the hands of the enormous man, the two-handed axe looked like a dueling rapier. Trystane had to admit he was curious to see one of the Qunari up close; he had heard descriptions of the grey-skinned, horned people from the North but they were mysterious and reclusive to a fault. The Iron Bull looked the part of a savage mercenary, bare-chested save a leather harness over heavy trousers. He was exceptionally well-muscled and everything about him was, simply put, large. He had incredibly broad shoulders and a muscular chest, muscles rippling under myriad scars. He was wearing a patch over one eye, the edge of a scar just visible beneath it, and his chin came to a point and was covered in a trimmed beard. His eyes were different, however. They were intelligent, searching eyes and Trystane knew immediately that this was no brute like the former Hessarian leader.

“Iron Bull, I presume,” he said with a dry tone and a flourish.

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away,” came the sarcastic response.

“I know your men had that under control, but we couldn’t let you have all the fun to yourselves,” Trystane chuckled. “It was an impressive display, by the way.

“Thank you,” the Bull nodded. “We’re expensive but we’re worth it. A relatively new organization such as yours could use some experienced muscle on your side. We’re willing to be that muscle.”

“And just how much is it going to cost me?” he asked warily.

“Nothing to you personally,” Iron Bull chuckled. “Your ambassador, Josephine, is it? She can arrange it. I know you can afford it,” he said with a smirk. “And you don’t just get my men. You get me; you need another warrior accompanying you, even if you do know how to use that spear. And there’s one final thing to mention. Might not care, might piss you off. Have you heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

It sounded Qun, but Trystane had never heard of it. “No, I’m embarrassed to say I know practically nothing of the Qunari,” he admitted.

“And they like it that way. We… like it that way,” he made the admission slowly, gauging Trystane for reactions. “The Ben-Hassrath are a branch of the Qunari governing body. The best way to put it is that they – we – are spies.”

“So you’re a Qunari spy? And you’re telling us this why?” Cassandra asked dubiously.

“The Qun has heard of the Inquisition and the Breach; I’ve been instructed to get close to you and report on your efforts to seal it,” Iron Bull responded. “But this isn’t going to be spying, strictly. I’m free to give you reports from my people, as an exchange of information. We’d be working together, to an extent.”

“Herald, we do not need mercenaries in our ranks who are actively spying for a foreign power,” the Seeker urged. “Deny his request and let’s continue our mission.”

“Cassandra, if they want to spy on us that badly, they’ll find a way to do it,” Varric said. “Might as well get some information out of it. Leliana can handle it.”

“I agree with dwarfy here,” Sera piped up. “Might as well know where the dagger’s comin’ from, I know for a fact. And you need people.”

Trystane weighed his options, looking warily into the Qunari’s eyes. Something about the man was casual and honest, something he appreciated, and he was inclined to trust him. Whether that was wise or not remained to be seen.

“Very well, Iron Bull, you’re hired. Meet us in haven and Josephine and Leliana will make the necessary arrangements.”

“Hell yeah, boss,” Iron Bull said with a wide grin. “You won’t regret this.” Cassandra huffed behind him. He found himself wondering why this was his decision to make in the first place, surprised by the Seeker’s willingness to concede the judgement to him.

He turned to his companions; they were a miserable looking lot after a day of trudging around the hillsides in the rain all day. “Alright, let’s get to camp and I’ll tend to any scrapes and cuts you’ve all got. Tomorrow we’ll set about closin’ the rifts that Harding found before we make our way back to Haven.” Sera whooped with excitement to get back to camp; they were all worn out, ready to dry off in front of the fire and get some rest. They set off, up the embankment towards the hills that housed their camp.

***

Over the next two days, with the aid of the Blades of Hessarian, they encountered little resistance as they went about their business of closing the four rifts that Harding had marked on Trystane’s map. While he was getting proficient at sealing the green anomalies, he didn’t relish the repeated encounters with demons. The aid of the Blades of Hessarian was invaluable there, bolstering their numbers while they cleared each rift.

The sensation of sealing a rift, while becoming familiar to him, was impossible to truly get accustomed to; it began with searing heat in his palm, extending down his arm almost to his elbow as he made the connection to the rift, feeling the mark pulling at the edges of the tear in the veil, pulling it shut in a way that Trystane felt was similar to closing a wound as a spirit healer.

It was another week before they arrived back, and again he felt an odd sense of relief wash over him. Haven was rapidly becoming his home, despite how he missed his family, and almost importantly his wardrobe, in Ostwick. It always felt like no time had passed in that Haven always bustled with the same activities; Cullen drilling recruits, workers busy under the demands of Threnn, their quartermaster, the blacksmiths and alchemists always busy to keep up with the material demands of the budding Inquisition forces, and the Herald’s Rest a quiet constant of warmth and companionship. He found himself hoping that he would have more than a couple days of rest before his next mission.

His heart did a strange little flip when they came within view of the training camp – even if it felt constant, it was still growing to accommodate their swelling army, and Cullen remained a consistent marker at its head, striding through lines of recruits and barking orders. Even as a knot of apprehension formed in his chest, remembering the embarrassment that he had managed to forget on the Storm Coast, he couldn’t resist staring at blonde hair that caught the sunlight in the best way, the confident movements and the trademark fur mantle of the Inquisition Commander. He turned away only when he saw a templar motion to the Commander and then to them, causing the man to turn his attention to the arriving group, and Trevelyan looked away swiftly.

In his determination not to look at the Commander he didn’t notice his approach, and was caught off-guard by the man’s voice at his side. “Welcome back, Herald,” he said. Trystane nodded, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“Greetings to you, Commander,” he said politely. Everyone except for himself and Cullen noticed the care that he took not to meet the man’s eyes. The Commander, however, looked intently to the man.

“We’ve business to tend to in the war room,” Cullen informed Cassandra and him. “If you aren’t too tired, we should go there directly.”

“I’m quite alright, Commander,” he answered, almost snapped. “Let’s get this over with.” Nobody spoke as they made their way to the Chantry, Varric and Sera breaking off from the group as they passed the tavern; Sera made a comment into Varric’s ear and sniggered mischievously as she practically skipped away, followed by Varric.

***

Mere moments later Trystane along with Cullen, Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra were gathered in the war room; across the massive mahogany table was spread detailed maps of Fereldan and Orlais, and markers were scattered across its surface.

“Our next move should be for you to meet with Fiona in Redcliffe,” Leliana suggested to Trystane. “You already have an invitation, and my agents are at present still having difficulty locating the templars.”

“I still think that allying with the rebel mages is wildly dangerous,” Cullen said in a low voice. “They are desperate and likely disorganized. Not to mention the likelihood of abominations.”

“We need power enough to charge the mark and close the Breach, Cullen, and your distrust of mages-“ Leliana began before Trystane cut in.

“The Commander happens to be right on that point, Leliana, we aren’t prepared to deal with abominations at present. But,” he continued, “we aren’t prepared to handle the arrival of templars either, even if we could secure their aid.”

“That is fair,” Cullen said, “But getting them access to lyrium is much easier than combatting abominations.”

“In an ideal world, we could recruit from the ranks of both factions,” Trystane pointed out. “Why can’t we?”

“Is that a serious question?” Cassandra asked incredulously.

“They are at war, Herald,” Josephine said delicately. “To get aid from both would require a feat of diplomacy that even the Divine couldn’t accomplish.”

“They only have to set aside their differences long enough to help us with the Breach,” Cassandra said. “We should at least try; I agree with the Herald.”

“And in any event, speaking with Fiona isn’t the same as cementing an alliance,” Josephine added, “In fact, we can use the time that we still need to track the templars to allow the Herald to meet with her. If there can be an arrangement made, they can discuss the potential terms and the likelihood of cooperating with the templars.”

“It’s settled then – my next move is to meet with Fiona in Redcliffe?” Trystane asked to be certain – this conversation had been like a whirlwind.

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Cullen admitted grudgingly. “But I want Cassandra to go with you to participate in the talks.” Cassandra and Trystane both flashed him irritated looks, and Leliana chuckled.

“Then when do we leave?” Trystane’s tone was growing short.

“You still have a few days – I want to move agents into position within the city, so that you aren’t going into this blindly. I will let you know when they report back,” Leliana said.

Josephine, busily jotting notes on the clipboard nested on her arm, spoke up. “So we are ready to move on this account? Very well. I think that concludes our business for now, if the Herald and the Seeker need some rest.” With that Cassandra left, followed by Leliana and Josephine filtering out of the room. Trystane made to leave as well, until he felt a grip on his forearm and turned to see Cullen looking intently at him.

“Do you need something, Commander?” he asked politely. “I suppose you’re worried about evil mages havin’ run of the camp?”

“No, it’s not-” Cullen sighed. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you. But if the mages are up to anything, you need someone with her training on your side. I don’t like placing you into a hornets’ nest, so to speak.”

Trystane’s expression softened and Cullen released his grasp on his forearm. “Alright, Commander,” he said. “I understand.”

“Cullen,” the blonde responded. “I thought we agreed to drop the titles?”

_That was before I made a drunk fool of myself,_ Trystane thought somewhat bitterly, but he grinned and said “Very well, Cullen. I think I’ll be headin’ to the training field, if those recruits are ready for more spear work.”

“Indeed they are,” he said as the two left the war room. “Fine work with them, by the way. They’re making quick progress.”

Trystane looked away from the Commander, flushed slightly as they made their way out of the Chantry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald meets an unexpected visitor, and chaos ensues. Later, he meets with the mage rebellion. More chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the length of these chapters is getting away from me. This one is almost twice as long as the first one.  
> Also, I don't have a beta reader and these chapters aren't really edited at all, so comment anything (constructive) you notice that could use updating. I would very much appreciate it.

The next two days were comfortable routine. Trystane woke at the third bell, stretched and warmed up for the day in the training grounds, and started his duties by preparing poultices and other herbal preparations before the sixth bell; Adan, gruff though he may have been, welcomed the alleviation of his duties in that respect. From the sixth bell until the eleventh the Herald tended to the sick and injured in the ward, and after his repast he would meet his recruits on the field for drills; in the two weeks that he had been in the Storm Coast and during the few days that he worked with them in Haven they were already becoming comfortable with the spear, with its unique movements and tactics, and Cullen had informed him that soon they might start to spar with the other recruits to test their mettle against other opponents.

His work on the training field would often last until the fifth bell of the after-noon and Trystane found that he was beginning to spend much of his time with their blonde-haired Commander, much of the previous awkwardness fading as he began to accept that, while Cullen wouldn’t return any feelings beyond friendship, that friendship was itself very valuable to him. They spent much of their time together chatting or sparring when the recruits were practicing simpler drills, or performing tasks that could be overseen by the Lieutenants. Trystane argued that, as much time as Cullen spent on his arse shouting at recruits, he ought to have someone rough him up on the practice field every now and then; Cullen agreed enthusiastically, and their ensuing matches had been far more evenly-matched than their first. The swordsman knew better now that to underestimate the master of the spear, even unarmed.

His evenings were spent in a variety of activities; some of them in the tavern drinking and singing with Varric and Sera, other times reading or chatting with the Knight-Enchanter, and still others spent in discussion with Solas. Trystane was beginning to acquire something of a reputation for being an everyman, someone who could relate and associate with a variety of people with ease, going from refined Orlesian banter with Vivienne to bawdy tavern-song with Sera. In all of these ways, Haven was starting to become home for him, and he felt that he was even forming some friendships.

That was until a true reminder of home arrived at the bustling mountain town: an honor guard of six knights, flying the crest of House Trevelyan, accompanying none other than his older brother Percival.

Trystane was in the Chantry, eased into a chair beside the desk where Vivienne had set up her affairs, leafing through a strategic treatise on the tactics of battlemages, written by an Orlesian imperial enchanter, while Vivienne and he discussed the Circle; she had expressed surprise in finding his opinions of the Circle to be fairly moderate, considering his past as an apostate.

“My dear, what is all that noise outside,” Vivienne brought a hand to her temple, somehow remaining elegant even when disturbed.

“Perhaps Sera-” he was interrupted from his hypothesizing as the door to the Chantry was flung open, an Inquisition runner dashing inside and making their way directly to him.

After a brief nod, the runner – a young elven man – launched into a hurried explanation of how there were people claiming to be relations of the Lord Herald at the gate, and that they required his presence. Trystane jumped out of his seat, marking his place in the book and setting it aside.

“It seems I have matters to attend; _à plus tard_ , Madame de Fer,” he nodded before making his way hastily to the main gate.

At the gate he was met with Josephine who was trying desperately to delay a rather tall, armored man with a mane of black hair and grey-green eyes, but her efforts were truly for naught once the man locked eyes with Trystane’s.

“Percival!” He called out and approached is brother, shaking his hand and pulling him to his shoulder in a quick embrace. Percival, somehow a few inches taller than the already-formidably-tall Herald, clapped his back with a gloved hand before stepping back and looking him over.

“You really did survive, brother,” he said with a smirk. “After a month and no letters, ma just had to send me after ye. We heard the rumors of course… so am I to be callin’ ye Herald now?” he asked.

“Maker, anythin’ but that,” Trystane chuckled. He looked to the knights assembled behind his brother, glittering steel and brilliant banners flying the colors of House Trevelyan: a white stallion with a gold mane rising from a blue sea, a symbol of the family’s success as merchants and warriors. “I see ma sent the cavalry – is a little overkill, brother, to send six knights with you just for sayin’ hello.”

“You know that weapon of a mother,” Percival replied; he had a precisely trimmed black beard and moustache, with hair down to his jaw, pulled back into a tight bun. “This was what I got after talkin her down from sending a damn army; she was convinced these inquisition folk were holdin ye prisoner.” His accent was thicker than Trystane’s, with a greater tendency to eat his g’s and to cut his words short.

“Lord Herald,” Josephine said, “I was just explaining to Lord Trevelyan that you are indeed here of your own free will, and that his attempts to free you from us are unnecessary.”

“We’ll see abou’ that,” Percival said with a cheeky grin to the Ambassador.

“Percival, how about you get your horses stabled and your tents set up, and we can talk where we won’t be makin’ such a scene,” Trystane grinned. “Besides I’ve got to introduce everyone to my fool brother. I’ll meet you at the Herald’s Rest.”

“The Herald’s Rest, eh? Got your own tavern now? My brother’s movin’ up in the world,” he chuckled and motioned for his knights to dismount. “I’ll see ye there, then.” He nodded to Trystane and Josephine before taking off with his knights to stable their horses.

“This is the perfect opportunity for us to speak on a related matter, Herald,” Josephine said once they had left. “I had meaning to discuss this with you earlier, but do stop by my office later; I wish to discuss the possibility of reaching out to your family for support.” Trystane nodded as the thoroughly flustered Antivan turned to flee up the slope and into Haven’s front gate.

***

One hour and several mugs of ale later, the two Trevelyans were traipsing about the ville while Trystane introduced Percival to all his new companions. Haven,  meanwhile, was awestruck that the Herald and his giant of a brother were falling all over the town, joking and shoving each other like boys.

Varric and Sera took an instant liking to Percival – while he was the eldest and technically the heir, he was also extremely personable to be around and even Sera’s general hatred of the nobility was softened by his outgoing demeanor – _anyone as can knock back a pint like that is good in my book_ had been her exact phrasing.

Solas had greeted him politely, clearly disturbed from his studious reverie by the two drunken brothers, but inwardly he was glad to see the Herald enjoying himself – very few aside from him were able to perceive past the veil of confidence that the young man wore, into the knots of nerves and anticipation that he harbored.

Trystane had told his brother that he would meet Vivienne in the morning, as even in his drunken state he knew better than to present the future head of his household to the Knight-Enchanter while they were both only vaguely able to stand reliably.

Eventually they made their way to the training grounds, still comfortably warmed from their ale but no longer drunk, the cold night air and their walk serving to sober them up somewhat, where Trystane jogged cheerfully over to the Commander.

“Evenin’ Cullen,” he said. “I suppose you’ve already heard but let me present to you my eldest brother, Percival Trevelyan. Percy, this is Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition army.”

Percival gave a slight bow, noting how his brother sidled up almost directly to the blonde’s side, only a hairsbreath of space between them, and how Cullen’s expression lifted at their arrival.

“Pleased to meet ye, Commander,” he said pleasantly, the corners of his eyes alight mischievously.

“My Lord Trevelyan, I saw the entrance you made earlier. None of the Trevelyans seem to be fond of subtlety,” Cullen chuckled and Trystane nudged his side sharply.

“Have you taken a look at either of us? Not exactly subtle,” Percival retorted. Cullen looked to Trystane and his expression softened notably.

“I suppose you’re right,” he trailed off before snapping his attention to Percival; a momentary lapse that others might have missed, if others were blind and deaf.

“My, you sure did aim high with this one brother,” he said teasingly, giving Cullen a suggestive once-over. Trystane’s expression froze, mortification written in his eyes.

“I don’t know _what you mean_ , Percival,” Trystane said through his teeth. He took a step to the side, creating distance between himself and the blonde, who had looked away and raised one arm to scratch at the back of his neck.

“Ah,” Percival noted. “Just a jest, in poor taste.”

Trystane could see the gears turning in Cullen’s head as his neck and cheeks flushed red; he wondered if the Commander was aware of how he wore his emotions on his sleeve.

“I, uh, I was wondering if you’re the fighter your brother is,” Cullen diverted the topic.

“I would be, if it weren’t for his pesky magic,” Percival teased. “Nice to be able to complain about it in public now; is no fair sparrin someone who can use those fancy tricks.”

“Liar,” Trystane said, “I’ve beat you without it handily before – or have you forgotten last summer’s Grand Melee?”

“I remember no such thing,” Percival said with a grin. Cullen sighed to himself, relieved at the change in topic.

Trystane shot his brother a dramatic glare, and then with the telltale snap of mana in the air the elder Trevelyan found himself on his arse while Trystane broke into raucous laughter. “Sorry Cullen, gotta run!” he said, giving Cullen a playful look before sprinting towards the gates to Haven – his brother, still in mail and disoriented, lumbered after him. It was rather like a great bear lumbering after a cheeky bird who had stolen the fish from his grasp. Cullen found himself suppressing laughter – the Trevelyan brothers were something of a whirlwind, chaos whipping through and around the camp.

***

It was late that evening when Percival retired to his brother’s cabin for a nightcap of tea mixed with a hint of elderflower wine – Trystane’s favorite. Looking around, he saw his brother had managed to make the place into something resembling his home. His favorite books littered the tables and shelves, dried herbs strung up over the fire and his clothes strewn on the chair and bed, a testament to his occupied lifestyle. Trystane poured their tea now while Percival uncorked the bottle of elderflower wine he had brought as something of a gift for his kid brother. _Not much of a kid anymore,_ he thought wistfully. His brother had had to do a lot of growing up, quickly, in the past month.

“So brother, what’s the story with this Inquisition? Are you really stayin’?” Percival asked as he added a dash of wine to two glasses that were then topped off with tea. The floral scent filled the cabin and Trystane inhaled deeply as he settled into a chair by the fire. Percival personally didn’t mind it, but preferred sweeter things to the bitter, floral flavors that Trystane enjoyed.

“It’s a worthy cause, Percy,” Trystane said almost into his mug. “I’ve seen a lot – I’ve done a lot in the past few weeks. I’ve helped a lot of people. Not to mention this,” he lay his hand, palm up, on his knee, where the green mark glowed ominously. Even in the light of the fire, it was eerily bright. “is the only thing we know of that can seal a rift.”

“Does it hurt?” Percival was curious, but concerned above all. Trystane shook his head. “Then tell me this – even if you are proud of the work you do, are you certain it must be with this inquisition?” he asked. “Mother and Father are concerned – you and these people are declared heretics. We all worry for your safety.”

“It’s alright, brother, it truly is,” Trystane responded calmly. “The Inquisition is the best hope for change in the moment. The circles failed, the templars failed, the Chantry is reeling and even the courts of Fereldan and Orlais do nothing to quell the chaos in the wake of the breach, and the rebellion. And I am safe here; what fool would be willing to ride up here through the snow just to get to me, do you reckon?” he teased that final question.

“Very well. That’s all we wanted to know. We figured you would tell us eventually, but I can understand that sendin’ a raven’s not your top priority at the moment,” Percival sighed.

“I’m sorry to have stressed you all,” Trystane said softly as his face fell. He took a long drink of his tea and the two sat in a moment of companionable silence.

“Now… tell me the story of you and that blonde,” Percival began mischievously. “I know your type and Maker if he ain’t exactly it.”

“It’s not goin’ to happen,” Trystane sighed as he leaned back, tipping his chair onto its back legs and leaning it into the wall behind him. “Already tried, sort of. Don’t think he fancies men. But he’s a good man, worth keepin’ as a friend.”

“You’re given up already? Seein’ how he looks at ye I thought you’d already bedded him,” he said and Trystane nearly spat.

“Percival,” he said with a mockingly scandalized tone. “I haven’t got the foggiest what you mean.”

“I’m not jokin, Trys. Looks like he’s practically pinin for ye, he does,” Percival smirked.

“And I’m not listenin’ to none of your foolishness,” Trystane retorted. “Now go get back to your knights, they’re liable to think the Inquisition’s kidnapped you too at this hour.” Percival chortled but dragged himself to his feet, finding that he was ready to rest.

“I don’t think I’ll see you come mornin’,” Trystane said. “We’re leavin’ for Redcliffe first thing. But I promise I’ll write you.” Percival nodded, pulling his brother into a quick embrace before stepping back and making for the door.

“Very well. Take care, little brother,” he said as he stepped out.

***

At first light Trystane had made his way to the front gate of Haven where Inquisition hands were preparing their horses, provisions already prepared and packs tied to the saddle. Cassandra was already staning next to her mount along with Varric and Enchanter Vivienne as he approached.

“Will Sera or Solas be joinin’ us?” he asked as he drew near; he counted five horses, not four.

“No, we have an… unexpected guest,” Cassandra said with a roll of her eyes.

“Mornin’, Herald!” Trystane whirled as Percival’s voice rang through the air, up the steps into Haven. He was still in full mail with a pack slung over his shoulder.

“What in the Maker’s green earth have you done, Percival?” he asked with exasperation. Then, gesturing to the fool who approached them from up the hill, “Madame Vivienne, my eldest brother and dearest fool, Percival.”

“Charming,” Vivienne said with a grin. “But we’ve already met; he’s quite a delight. I think the Duc de Ghislain’s niece would love him to pieces.” Trystane heaved a sigh, amusement written across his face.

“Your lovely Ambassador filled me on the details of your mission last night,” Percival said, “And there’s no way my brother’s walkin into that nest of vipers on his own. No offense to your companions, who I’m sure are quite capable,” he nodded to the Seeker, “But at least for ma’s sake I’ve got to ensure your safety.”

“According to Cullen, he’s a capable fighter, so I saw no reason to decline his offer,” Cassandra said. Perhaps it was in Trystane’s imagination, but he could have sworn that the woman’s expression wasn’t a grimace, in its usual way. She was even amused, perhaps.

“And how could the Commander vouch for a man he’s never seen in combat?” Trystane asked with irritation.

“Oh, apparently when Cassandra said she wouldn’t let him come without Cullen’s approval, he marched to the Commander’s cabin and woke him up, demanding a duel,” Varric laughed his way though the explanation. “Crazy runs in your family, Silver.”

“I had thought such a requirement would deter him,” the Seeker sighed with none of her usual authentic grievance.

“What, you don’t want your brother to come?” Percival asked with mock disappointment.

“Just get on your mount, you reprobate,” Trystane teased, relenting as he did the same.

On horseback, what had previously been a day’s march to the farmlands surrounding Redcliffe was reduced to a twelve-hour ride, and they arrived at the outskirts of the city just as the crystal blue of Redcliffe’s fair sky began to bleed the faintest orange and the sun began to hang lower in its path. The immediate vicinity of Redcliffe had fared better than the surrounding countryside in the conflict between the rogue templars and mages, the city having taken the mages in and given them refuge. The mages within weren’t the wild, fanatically violent mages that they had fought across the Hinterlands – these mages were the true corps of the Rebellion, the organized resistance to templar rule, and so far they had been incredibly reclusive, reluctant to engage in the violence that had spread in the rebellion’s wake.

As they approached the gate the first thing they noticed was shouting and Trevelyan gasped with the telltale flair of pins and needles throughout his forearm; they neared a rift. “We’re getting close to a rift,” he cautioned the others and they drew their weapons, alert as they rounded a bend in the path that led around a thicket of trees. The gate to Redcliffe then came into view, foreboding and old, almost blending into the scenery with thick foliage blanketing the ramparts. What was most striking, however, was the rift that was suspended above the gate.

“Leliana’s people reported no rifts in Redcliffe,” Cassandra remarked. “Could this be a new one?”

“If so, that’s not a comforting thought,” Trystane said as he dismounted, drawing his spear. The others followed suit, Percival brandishing a sword and shield bearing the Trevelyan coat-of-arms. As they drew near, the rift reacted to the presence of the mark and destabilized, throwing demons out of the fade and onto the surrounding grass: mostly wraiths and with a few lesser shades, nothing too intimidating. Trevelyan brandished his spear, glinting silver in the light and threw a barrier over himself as well as Cassandra and Percival, feeling the warmth of his magic blanket over him, knitting itself into a second skin. He then fade-stepped towards the nearest wraith – he always wanted to deal with ranged opponents first, so that they could control the field of battle.

Halfway to his mark, he suddenly felt wrenched backwards, his normally impossibly fast Fade Step slowed to a normal running pace for a few moments. Then, equally abruptly he was tossed forward at full speed, tilting off balance and falling gracelessly to his feet. Recovering he rolled into it, using his momentum to barrel head-over-heels and right himself right as a bolt of magic from his would-be-target blew past his shoulder. He turned to the wraith, blade igniting in pale white-blue veilfire as he slashed through the small apparition. The veilfire, harmless to physical entities but attracted to magic, caught onto the demon and spread quickly, consuming the its mana and then remaining suspended in air where the wraith had been.

Trystane turned on his heel to meet a shade head on, spinning the same veilfire-cloaked spear  to drive it back into a comfortable distance before driving it deep into the demon’s flesh. It too caught alight, sinking and bubbling into the ground as it collapsed into a mound of a nameless grey substance that continued to burn with gently blue flame.

At that time he saw another shade closing distance with Varric and sprung forward to his friend’s defense, until he saw the creature slow to a near standstill just yards ahead of the dwarf. It was moving, albeit very slowly, and it gave Trystane plenty of time to hurl a ball of veilfire to its amorphous body, watching it bubble and collapse in the same way.

The demons cleared, Trystane held his mark to the sky, almost like an offering to the rift, and the mark made the familiar connection. Eating at the edges of the Rift, drawing it shut, a door slammed in the face of the Fade. Pain subsided to pins and needles across his forearm and he nursed it against his chest momentarily before casting a look around; they were all accounted for, and Percival was looking at him, almost in awe.

They continued to the front gate, hearing the chatter of the guards as they announced that it was over, the rift was sealed.

“That was… odd…” Trystane said as he and his companions converged in front of the gate waiting for it to be opened.

“Yes, this rift appeared to alter time around it,” Cassandra said warily. “We do not know all of what rifts are capable of, perhaps.”

“This is a little too odd,” Trystane said. “Something is wrong here. We all need to be on our guard.”

“Perhaps Fiona knows something,” Vivienne suggested. “Although in the middle of her horrendously ill-timed rebellion, I doubt her people could meddle with something this advanced.”

“Either way, our goal remains unchanged,” Cassandra said. “Let us meet the Grand Enchanter.”

Once the portcullis was drawn up, the party passed through it and onto the path that led into Redcliffe village. It was a beautiful town, verdant greenery clinging to every inch and the fresh scent of brine coming off of the docks. Without the scattered ruins of demolished buildings being reclaimed by their surroundings, there was little to hint at the desolation that the town endured during the Fifth Blight. They were met just inside the gate by an inquisition scout, cowl drawn over his eyes and face obscured as he knelt before them.

“We have spread word that you were coming… but you should know that no one here was expecting the Inquisition,” the scout said apprehensively. “We have arranged use of the tavern for you to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“That must be a mistake. I am certain that Fiona invited us here,” Cassandra huffed.

“Inquisition!” A voice called from behind the scout, and a lively young elven mage came trotting up to them. “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but you are free to speak with the former Grand-Enchanter in the meantime.”

***

“Agents of the Inquisition,” Fiona greeted them with a polite, if suspicious, nod. “How may I help you? Why… are you here?”

Irritation flashed across Trystane’s expression. “You invited us here back in Val Royaux. You told us that we might gain more from our fellow mages.”

“You must be mistaken; I haven’t been to Val Royaux since before the Conclave,” Fiona’s brows were knit in confusion.

“My dear, your age is getting the better of you,” Vivienne quipped from where she stood behind Trevelyan.

“I’m quite certain it was you,” frustration was clear in Trystane’s tone, even if he was trying to reign it in.

“Regardless, whoever, or… whatever brought you here, the situation has changed.” Her confidence faltered as she continued: “The Free Mages of Southern Thedas have… pledged themselves to the Tevinter Imperium.”

“Excuse me, I must have misheard you,” Trystane said in disbelief.

“Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?” Cassandra’s reaction was one of anger, disgust.

“I wasn’t even sure I could manage to be more disappointed in you, but you have somehow managed,” Vivienne’s tone dripped in acid.

“We had no choice,” Fiona responded with an exasperated sigh. “We are losing this war. I did this to save as many of my people as I could. As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

Trystane shoved his anger and disappointment down, making his emotions submit with an icy neutrality. He had a mission to consider; magister or no magister, the Breach was a threat. “Very well,” he seethed. “Tell me who does have the authority to negotiate with us?”

As if on cue, someone spoke from behind them. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the man in question was the most clearly Tevinter person in Thedas; he wore elaborate mage’s robes over silver mail, hood drawn up and ornamental fabric spikes hanging from its neckline and sticking up from the edge of the hood. The man’s voice was arrogant, and he spoke common tongue with a crisp, deliberate and clipped accent, as though significant effort was invested in every syllable. Trystane tried not to spit at the sight.

“Inquisition, if I may introduce Magister Gereon Alexius,” Fiona said timidly. The magister brushed past their group, accompanied by a much younger man in yellow robes.

“We may negotiate, Inquisition. Ah…” he trailed off as he eyed the mark on Trystane’s hand. “So you are the survivor… from the Fade? Most intriguing,” he noted. He gestured to a table and he and the Herald sat opposite each other. “Felix, send for a scribe; allow me to introduce my son, Friends.”Trystane hated the way Alexius referred to them as his friends. Felix turned away wordlessly.

Trystane shifted uncomfortably in his seat across from the Magister; the man had a sever expression with closely cropped black hair, flecked in grey, and clean-shaven. He stank of expensive perfumes and the static feeling of mana charged the air between them. Trystane could almost feel the magister’s magic nudging against his, probing for weakness. He smiled acidly.

“So you are attempting to close the Breach, yes? That is not a thing many could even attempt. There is no telling how many mages will be needed for such an endeavor.” The Tevinter said with a challenging expression.

“When your enemy is a massive tear in the Veil, one can’t afford to think small,” Trystane responded to the challenge. He slipped into the way he spoke with nobles and self-important people, all but eliminating his accent as he measured each syllable precisely. He knew that Alexius understood the implication behind his words. _Is the Breach our only enemy here?_

“There will have to be-” Alexius began, weight shifting on the uncomfortable wooden bench until they heard a heavy footfall approaching – Felix, stumbling as he made his way back to the table. His complexion was ashen and he seemed to look past everyone as he made his way with difficulty to the table. “Felix?” Alexius’ voice was no longer pomp and bravado, now whispered concern. He and Trystane stood simultaneously and Felix’ unsteady footing brought him crashing into the Herald, who caught him under one arm and by the opposite wrist. He felt Felix grip his hand, press something into his palm, and didn’t react, slipping the note up his sleeve as he helped to right the man’s balance.

“I’m sorry,” Felix said with a shaky voice.

“Come, Felix – we’ll get your powders,” Alexius was already striding away from the table, taking his son by the arm and pulling him towards the door. “Fiona! I require your assistance back at the castle.” Fiona followed him wordlessly, as did the Tevinter agents that were stationed around the tavern. Once they were clear of the room, Cassandra said “What in the world is happening in this town?”

Alexius slipped the note from his sleeve into his palm, unfolding the scrap of parchment and reading aloud: “You are in danger. Meet me in the Chantry.”

“It’s probably a trap,” Percival said. “Why would his son warn us of his father’s actions?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t agree with the magister,” Cassandra said. “Even if it is a trap, it’s perhaps our only lead to understanding what is happening here.”

“Either way, we need to meet him. Let’s move for the Chantry,” Trystane said and the others nodded agreement, Percival only reluctantly.

***

The Chantry here was old and well-worn, modest compared to many, and the dense foliage seemed on the verge of claiming it like everything else in the town. Thanks to the influx of mages and Tevinter agents in the town, many were camping in the grounds around the chantry, and the Inquisition group felt eyes on them as they approached the heavy oaken doors to the chapel.

“Alright, here’s hoping we aren’t shot down immediately,” Trystane said drily. Nonetheless, he blanked himself and his companions in a cautionary barrier and drew his spear as Cassandra threw open the doors.

Inside, they saw a man, a mage, in leather armor striking down a shade. Just above the stranger a rift hung in the air, unstable.  The man turned to them – tanned, mustached – and his eyes lit gleefully. “Wonderful! You’re finally here - now can you help me close this thing?”

At that moment the rift reacted to the mark, sending cords of pain running up Trystane’s forearm, and a host of wraiths and shades dropped down from the tear in the Veil. As they fell, he noted one of the wraiths seemed to move faster than the others; on instinct, he fade-stepped into its space, slashing through it and sending it collapsing into thick green mist, and looking around him it looked as if everything slowed down to practically a standstill.

Trystane sent bolts of magical energy after the newly formed demons, what seemed only a handful of blasts to him being actually a flurry of arcane energy from the outside perspective. Even if he wasn’t normally a ranged mage, using the rift’s unstable time magic to his advantage allowed him to turn even the most basic of ranged attacks into a devastating barrage of arcane energy, and he was able to deftly eliminate the demons before Cassandra or Percival could get in to sword-swing edgewise.

Stepping out from the differential in time, he held his hand to the rift, sealing it in the manner that was becoming almost second-nature to him.  The Rift sealed, the remnants of its magic fell to the ground in bubbling pools of green mist.

“Fascinating,” Dorian said as he examined the quickly-dissipating remains of the rift. “How does that work, I wonder? You probably don’t even know, do you? Just wiggle your fingers and voilà! Rift sealed,” he crossed his arms across his chest, one hand moving to toy with the rather impressive mustache.

“Who are you?” Trystane asked, impatient. “We were told we’d be meetin’ Felix here,”

“Ah, getting ahead of myself I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous,” he said with a theatrical half-bow. “And yes, Felix seems to be having difficulty shaking his father.”

“Another magister,” Cassandra growled.

“Okay, I’m going to say this once – I am a mage from Tevinter, but I do not have a seat on the Magisterium – the two aren’t interchangeable.” Dorian had clearly heard the word far too often and he shook his head in frustration.

“Either way, he is of Tevinter. Be cautious with this one,” Cassandra said.

“Suspicious friends you have here,”  Dorian teased. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my help should prove invaluable, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Quit talking like you’re expectin’ applause or somethin’,” Trystane rolled his eyes. “And tell us what’s going on here.”

“What? There’s no applause? Very well,” Dorian cleared his throat. “Look, you must be aware of the danger here, even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you – as if by magic, yes? That’s exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius has distorted time itself.”

“So he could get here just after the death of the Divine?” Trystane said incredulously. He turned to Vivienne. “I’m no Circle scholar – is this possible?”

“Some have attempted to manipulate time throughout history, but none have succeeded. It is impossible,” Vivienne responded acerbically.

“You saw how the rifts here distorted time around themselves – you even used it to your advantage, Herald,” Dorian pressed the issue. “The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable. Soon, more rifts like these will appear, farther and farther from Redcliffe. It could have lasting impacts on the entire world.”

“We will need more than your word to prove these claims,” Cassandra said condescendingly.

“I know what I’m talking about – I helped Alexius develop this magic. At the time, it was only theory. It never worked. And in truth, proving it one way or the other requires time and expertise on your part that you do not possess,” Dorian snapped back. “What I don’t understand is why he’s done it – torn time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He hasn’t done it for them,” Felix’s voice called from the side-entry of the Chantry. “He’s done it to get to you,” this last directed to Trystane. “He’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the Venatori. And I can tell you one thing – whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“And what would the magister want with my brother?” Percival pressed his way forward to standing shoulder to shoulder with Trystane.

“They’re obsessed with him – with you,” Felix turned back to the Herald. “Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“Perhaps there’s a connection there; perhaps they feel threatened by you,” Dorian added.

“If they’re behind the rifts, or the breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I feared,” Felix shook his head.

Trystane was still suspicious. “And why would the two of you be workin’ against the magister?”

“I love my father, and I love my country. But this… cults? Indenturing the mage rebellion? Time magic? For his own good, we have to stop him,” Felix said.

“It would also be nice to prevent him from punching a hole in time,” Dorian added sourly.

“Then I don’t suppose you have any ideas on how to deal with this?” Trystane asked impatiently. The Tevinter mage was too theatrical for his liking, at least when he was in the middle of a cultist’ plot.

“You know you are his target – anticipating the trap is the first step to defeating him,” Dorian said. “I can’t stay in Redcliffe – Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and it’s dangerous for me to stay too long. But when you deal with him, I want to be there. I will be in touch.” He turned to walk away, stopping a few steps from the side entry. “Oh, and Felix? Try not to get yourself killed,” he continued through the door.

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” Felix called softly after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very much appreciate comments and kudos! It helps keep me motivated, especially since I've been writing a chapter a day. Thanks to people who have already commented! Also, subscribe for more because as I said, I'm trying my best to update every day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition prepares to deal with the Venatori threat; in Redcliffe, it would be an understatement to say that negotiations have fallen through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split the events of Redcliffe into two chapters, this one is a little shorter than the previous update but I've got a busy day and I was determined to at least post something today.  
> Also, woot, one full week of posting every day. Let's see how long I can keep it up.

“There is absolutely no way,” Cullen’s exasperated half-shout rang through the war room, “that I’m letting you go in to meet a cultist magister without Inquisition forces to back you up. And at the same time, we cannot send Inquisition forces to Redcliffe; that castle has stood for centuries against Orlais and event he Blight.”

“I cannot believe Tevinter has indentured the mage rebellion and you would have us do nothing!” Leliana bit back before Trystane could respond.

“Not this again,” Josephine interrupted. “Even if we could assault the fortress, we _shouldn’t_ ”, she punctuated the admonition with a jab of a quill to her parchment. “And _Orlesian_ Inquisition’s army marching on _Fereldan_ soil would provoke a war.”

“The magister-” Cassandra began-

“Has outplayed us,” Cullen said. “Let’s move on to the templars and leave the mages to their foolishness.”

“Are you forgettin’ that some among us are mages, Commander?” Trystane glared. “I’m no leavin’ them to these Venatori and a magister who’s hellbent on rippin time to bits!” There was a frustrated silence and Trystane leaned against the heavy table, sighing and pressing a hand to his temple before raking it through his hair, sending the length of silver falling over one shoulder.

Cullen eyed him gently. “Trystane, if you go in there without support, you will die. And we’ll lose…” his voice trailed off only a moment before he continued, “Our only way of sealing rifts. I won’t allow it.”

Right. He was their way of sealing rifts. Trystane bit back the urge to fling that comment in Cullen’s face when he saw amber eyes staring him down.

“What does going after the templars even entail?” Trystane said.

“The Lord Seeker appears to have taken the templars to Thereinfal Redoubt – but to do what? Our reports have been – odd,” Leliana reported, seemingly relieved for the change in topic.

“Our best bet is to negotiate with some of the Chantry-allied noble houses of southern Thedas,” Josephine said, “and try to use their leverage with the templars to convince them to speak with us. It will take time to arrange, however. Perhaps two weeks.”

“Then I don’t see why we canno do both,” Trystane said. “We get the mages in the time it takes for our Ambassador to round up these nobles, and once that’s ready we move on Thereinfal.”

“I am of a mind with the Herald,” Cassandra said. “It is only a matter of safety for us to be prepared to have so many mages here. Particularly in sealing the Breach, the mages may become vulnerable exposed to the Fade in such a way.”

“I don’t have quite the same faith in our ability to make them work together,” Josephine said drily.

“Oh, I can ensure they play nicely, at least until the Breach is sealed,” Leliana said. “Not to mention, the remaining templars are rapidly losing support. If they expect to maintain any sort of reputation in Thedas, they will work with us.”

“None of this changes the fact that we cannot take the mages from Alexius,” Cullen sighed. Again, charged silence sat between the gathered advisors.

“I understand that we canno storm the front gate,” Trystane said, “But I can meet with him. Maybe we can negotiate.”

“You may be a gifted fighter,” Cassandra said, “but you can hardly expect to defeat the Venatori single-handedly.”

“Is better than leavin’ the mages to them,” Trystane retorted.

“Dammit Trevelyan no it isn’t!” Cullen shouted and turned from the table, walking in a tight circle and raking his hands over his face. “We’re not sacrificing you to a Tevinter cult,” he growled.

“All I’m sayin’ is there’s gotta be something we can do aside from storming the castle,” Trystane leaned over the table, hands planted either side of his waist and staring at the blonde with determination.

“Wait,” Leliana said. “I’ve just remembered- during the Fifth Blight, I… was made aware of an escape route for the Bann’s family, built into the castle. It leads to the abandoned mill through an underground tunnel. If we are lucky, this Alexius does not know of it. It isn’t large for more than a squad of agents – but it may be enough if we can take them by surprise.”

“And how do you intend to take them by surprise?” Cullen was impatient.

“The magister has asked to meet with our Herald, alone. Perhaps we give him the envoy he seeks? Our agents can move into position while Trystane keeps Alexius distracted.”

“That could work,” Trystane perked up. “We need to work with Dorian. He offered his aid for whenever we confront Alexius.” There was a brief pause as the assembled looked to Cullen, who was visibly weighing the advantages and disadvantages of the idea.

“I suppose if we catch them by surprise then it could work,” he admitted. He looked at Trystane, something the Herald couldn’t quite place in his expression. “But this plan still puts you at risk. Are you sure you want to do this? We can still go after the templars, instead.”

“I’m sure, Cullen,” Trystane’s response was gentle. “Besides, sealing the Breach will probably work best if we can get both on our side – the mages to power the mark and the templars to suppress the Breach.”

“Very well. If that’s settled,” Josephine said, “Then we are prepared to move on both fronts. Leliana, move your agents into Redcliffe tonight, and the Herald can leave for the town in the morning.” Leliana nodded and turned to leave, Cassandra and Josephine following suit.

Trystane was about to turn to leave, but he saw Cullen hunched over the map, not moving and leaning heavily against the wood.

“Cullen, I apologize if things got a little heated,” Trystane said, pacing around the table to him. He set his hand on the man’s shoulder and he straightened up with a start, as if he thought the rest had all left.

“No, Trystane, I’m the one-”

“You were just lookin out for the Inquisition,” he interrupted the commander. “I appreciate it.” For once, he couldn’t quite read the look that Cullen gave him.

“Of course, Trevelyan,” Cullen breathed, visibly releasing tension from his shoulders and pushing off from where he leaned on the table. Trystane dropped his hand from where it had unconsciously settled onto Cullen’s arm, coughing slightly.

“Now how’s about we go grab a pint before a cult snatches me up and carries me off to Tevinter,” he teased to the Commander’s chagrin. “Consider it my last request,” he chuckled as he and the Commander left the room.

***

Josephine and Leliana watched the pair leave the war room from inside Josephine’s office, which sat just off the Chantry vestibule, adjacent to the war room.

“Those two have been acting rather strange,” Josephine said as Leliana gave them a look.

“I never would have thought, but I think our Commander is pining for a certain strapping Ostwicker mage,” the spymaster chuckled. “According to Flissa, however, Cullen was overheard rejecting the Herald a little over two weeks ago. How odd.”

“As much as I think they would be quite the couple,” Josephine sighed, “I’ll admit that the Herald courting our Commander would make my work considerably more complicated.”

“Oh, as far as anyone knows it’s just talk, Josie,” Leliana said with a smirk. “If I know Cullen, he will be trading awkward glances with the Herald until the next Blight.”

***

Later that evening, Cullen found himself being roped into a round of drinks with Trystane at the Herald’s Rest. The man had a talent for convincing dragging him around Haven, Cullen thought drily as Flissa brought them both mugs of ale. Trystane had become quite popular, he noticed as the Inn quickly filled up for the evening. Flissa informed him that the young nobleman had developed the habit of buying a round for the house whenever he was meant to be leaving the next day.

“Come on Cullen, I’m gonna get Sera over here if you can’t wipe that scowl off your mug,” Trystane teased him and at the threat of dealing with the mischievous elf, Cullen paled and then put on an exaggerated smile.

“In that case I’ll be the picture of drunken reverie, Trevelyan,” he said as he lifted the mug to his lips, watching Trystane as the man did the same. He was starting to notice small things about the man, such as how when he ate or drank he always twisted his long hair into a bun or how he had a tendency to down his drinks in one go so that he could focus more on his companions. He had come to admire the sociability of the man, a trait Cullen knew he himself would never possess, as he had seen the Herald constantly on the move, even during his stops in Haven between missions. Honestly, Cullen couldn’t understand how he could do it all on so little sleep: helping Adan with stocking potions, tending to the injured, keeping up with his own demanding training regimen on top of working with his squad of recruits and seeing to the needs of his own, albeit eccentric, Inner Circle.

Trystane eyed him as he downed his ale, and Cullen glanced aside, opting to take another sip after being caught staring.

“Brother! How am I no surprised to be findin’ you with the Commander,” Percival’s voice boomed from a few yards away. Cullen found himself wondering if all of the Trevelyan’s shared the brothers’ outgoing nature.

“And how am I not surprised to find you already drunk,” Trystane teased his brother as he motioned him over.

“Well,” he said as he collapsed onto the bench next to the Herald, “If we’re to be goin magister huntin’ tomorrow, I say I might as well have a good drink afore we go.” He motioned to Flissa for two more mugs and Cullen chuckled into his.

“You know, Trystane was just saying the same thing earlier,” he remarked.

“Great minds do think alike ye know,” Percival responded cheerily and clapped his brother on the back.

“And who said you were comin’ to Redcliffe, you big oaf,” Trystane teased. Cullen listened to their banter for awhile, content to sip his ale. It reminded him of arguing with Branson, his own brother, years ago.

After a minute their mock-argument had devolved into Percival attempting to wrangle his brother into a headlock, while his ale inexplicably splashed from his mug and into his face. He reeled back in surprise, losing his balance and tumbling from his seat. Cullen sat his mug down and laughed into his wrist, trying not to let the elder Trevelyan catch him laughing at the huge knight’s expense.

“Thas no fair,” Percival shouted from the ground. “Thas good ale you’ve wasted! My next round’s on you ye fuckin’ weapon!”

“I’m no buyin’ your drinks you lout,” Trystane chuckled as the man pulled himself up. “Look at you, soilin our good name trippin all around the place. Anyway, you can come with me to Redcliffe, somethin’ tells me you’d come anyhow.” Percival beamed at him.

“Now thas more like it,” he slurred before turning to the bar and attempting to flag the rather-busy barmaid down. “Who else is comin’?”

“Cassandra, Varric probably. I dunno about more than that, as I’ll have to convince the magister just to let me have two or three with me. He asked for me alone.”

“I should come with you,” Cullen insisted on impulse, then a moment later realized what he’d said. “You, uh, need someone with templar training if you’re going up against a magister.”

“You sure about that Cullen?” Trystane asked, just the suggestion of a smirk in the upturned corner of his lip. Cullen realized in passing that he rather liked the man’s hair up – he had a strong, angular jaw that was partially obscured when he wore it down over his shoulder. He decided to take another swig. “I mean,” he looked down to the table. “You’re welcome if you’ve a mind to come, Maker knows Varric would like an excuse not to come.”

Silently Cullen found himself rearranging training rotations, silently preparing his excuse for Leliana and Josephine. Honestly he didn’t understand his sudden urge to accompany the Herald. He told himself that the Herald was the only one who could seal rifts – it only made sense to ensure he was protected.

“Then I’m coming,” Cullen said with a grin. “I’m sure Varric will be pleased.”

Percival, who had downed perhaps three mugs in the short time that he had been at their table, leaned heavily against his brother, listening to the exchange. He eyed the two of them, back and forth, before abruptly standing. “You two enjoy the night,” he said with a wink, “I’m off to go bother the Iron Bull. I wonder what Qunari drink?” he wondered aloud as he staggered out of the tavern, tossing coin to Flissa as he made his way out.

“That big idiot,” Trystane said fondly as he watched his brother make his way out with some difficulty. “I better not find him planted face first into a snowdrift. You and I’d better get some rest before tomorrow,” he suggested as he stood as well, wavering slightly as he did so. He’d had no small amount of ale himself and Cullen stood, moving to steady the man but stopping short as he righted himself.

“I’m more afraid that we’ll find you the same way,” Cullen said drily. “Perhaps I should escort you to your cabin. Maker knows we don’t want to find the Herald of Andraste arse-up in a snowbank.” With that, Trystane gave a snort that devolved into raucous laughter, face flushing and he swayed again, Cullen moving around the table and grasping the man’s upper arm, bracing the man as he composed himself. Cullen’s real jokes, dry remarks aside, were few and far between and the Herald had learned to enjoy the man’s humor as it came and went.

“Very well, gallant templar, you may escort your Lord Herald,” Trystane’s drunken attempt to reign in his accent paired with a clumsy flourish of his hand outstretched to him made Cullen break out into a grin, his stomach doing odd flips as he took the man’s hand and led him from the tavern and towards his cabin.

“My Lord,” he said as they stopped at Trystane’s door, which was relatively close to the tavern in any event.

“Th’door,” Trystane slumped against Cullen, who caught the drunk man about the waist. He seemed to recall Trystane saying something about Trevelyans being known for holding their drink – _all lies_ , he thought to himself with a chuckle.

“Very well,” he said as he pushed open the door, which was more difficult that he would have anticipated given a very tall – and very heavy – Ostwicker leaning on him. Cullen tightened his grip around the Herald’s waist and half-walked, half-dragged him into the cabin, maneuvering him towards the bed and essentially allowing him to fall into it.

“Thanks, Cull…” Trystane mumbled as he already began to drift to sleep. Cullen chuckled to himself as he lifted the man’s legs onto the bed, figuring that it probably didn’t bother Trystane if his boots were left on, and grabbed a blanked from where it lay over a nearby chair and covered the Herald in it.

In the moonlight cast through a window set just over the Herald’s bed, Cullen couldn’t help but stare. At some point Trevelyan’s hair had come out of its bun and fanned out over his shoulder, silver strands catching the white ethereal light and shimmering, and the man’s skin looking so much fairer under the moon. The shadows played along his jaw, down over the curvature of his neck and onto muscled shoulders. Trystane stirred in his sleep, bringing a hand up and stretching it over his head, arching his back as he stretched and turned onto his side.

Cullen stepped back and out of his trance, lucky that no one was there to see how he flushed. “I, uh, goodnight, Trevelyan,” he said quietly as he stepped out of the cabin, thoroughly dazed and confused.

***

Trystane’s assembled party, Cassandra, Cullen and Percival, made their way into Redcliffe with exaggerated fanfare of Trevelyan knights trumpeting their arrival at the front gate. If a distraction was what Leliana’s people needed, then the Herald had decided that that was what they would have. He and his troupe had geared up to impress as well; Trevelyan in glittering silver mail, Silverite pauldron set on the left shoulder and Black leather gloves. His cuirass was chain mail and his greaves were thick black wyvern hide with Silverite plate set into the front; he was dressed with the show of power of an influential family. Percival was similarly outfitted, though in heavier dress armor, and Cassandra and Cullen wore Inquisition dress armor as well. Trystane had sent a letter with agents to identify themselves to Dorian, after a raven from the Tevinter mage had informed them of how to contact him. He hoped that the agents would have no issue slipping through Alexius’ defenses, as this was their only hope to stop the magister’s plot in its tracks.

The Venatori made no effort to conceal their watchful eye; much had changed in the brief time since Trystane’s recent visit to the town, and the Tevinter agents were around every corner. They were watched from the gates, the inn and as they crossed the stone bridge into the keep. There were Venatori around every corner of the castle and Trystane found himself beginning to doubt the ability of Leliana’s agents to make it past all of this.

When they entered the Great Hall of the castle they were greeted by a Seneschal, a blonde man wearing a blue doublet in the Fereldan style and a permanent sneer.

“Announce us,” Percival demanded after they were met with stony silence.

“Magister Alexius’ invitation was for the Herald alone,” he noted.

“These are my attachés,” Trystane’s response was practiced – he had anticipated resistance to his accompanying party. “Surely you won’t deprive me of my negotiators?”

There was long pause, during which the Seneschal scrutinized them each individually before replying. “Very well. This way,” he led them up a short flight of steps into the Hall, stopping several yards short of the throne. “My Lord, may I present to you Lord Herald Trevelyan of the Inquisition, and… his attachés.” He bowed slightly before turning and leaving.

“It is good to see you, my Friend,” Alexius’ tone was sickeningly fake. He was seated on the Bann’s throne, whose back was to a grand fireplace; Trystane noted Felix’ presence behind the throne, next to the fire. Alexius stood as he greeted them, grinning and raising his hand in a cordial gesture of greeting. If he didn’t have to buy time, Trystane would gladly stride up to the man and wipe the arrogant smirk off of his face. “And your companions, of course,” he added with a note of clear distaste. “You need mages for the Breach, and I have them. What can you give me in return?”

Trystane didn’t want to participate in this sham. He heard, however, the soft movement and telltale hiss of steel through skin. _The agents have made it_ , he thought triumphantly. Giving Cullen a look he stepped forward, pointing at the Magister. “I’m more interested in learning about this cult,” he declared. He heard Cassandra groan behind him.

“I don’t have any idea what you mean,” Alexius’ eyes were widened with alarm, nostrils flared, even if the rest of his composure remained relaxed.

“They know everything, Father.” Felix spoke up.

“Felix, what have you done,” the Magister’s tone was no longer smug; instead, he spoke in a low apprehensive growl.

“Your son is concerned that you’re involved in something terrible,” Trystane tried to sound gentle.

“You!” Alexius whirled on him, striding a few paces forward. “You come here to my fortress with your stolen mark – a gift you don’t even understand – and try to turn my son against me? You are nothing but a mistake!”

“If I’m a mistake, then what was the Breach meant to accomplish? What do you know about the mark?” Trystane insisted, stepping closer and drawing his spear.

“Father, do you even hear yourself?” Felix, pleading.

“He sounds just like the villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” Dorian interrupted, striding forth from behind the columns that flanked the great hall.

“Dorian,” Alexius’ eyes narrowed, putting together the pieces of what was unfolding before him. “I gave you an opportunity to be a part of this. You turned me down.”

“Listen to yourself, Alexius,” Dorian said. “Cults? Time magic? This is exactly what we discussed _never_ wanting to happen!”

“It matters not. The Elder one comes – he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes. Mages will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Sea,” Alexius said. “Venatori! The Elder One demands this man’s life!” he said as he gestured to Trystane. There was no response.

“Your Venatori are slain,” Dorian said triumphantly.

“Father, stop this,” Felix said. “Let the southern mages seal the Breach, and let’s go home.”

“No, Felix. The Elder one promised me – he can save you. If I correct the mistake of the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” he said as he turned his gaze back on the Herald. Hand lifting before him, what appeared to be an amulet hovered in the air over his palm and glowed with a deep, malevolent green light. “You are a mistake,” he hissed. “You should never have existed!”

Trystane could feel the air around him charge, an unfamiliar magic whipping up around him. In the periphery of his awareness he could hear Dorian’s voice, feel someone trying to push him out of the way as the rush of magic bloomed around them, and then silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated! Suggestions and pointers are always welcome if they're positive and constructive. Thanks to everyone who's reading, your feedback makes my day when I see it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and his companions navigate a doomed future under a mysterious threat; Trystane has difficulty processing what he sees and does in this grim fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the events of In Hushed Whispers, there are obviously spoilers. It occurs to me I should have been posting spoiler warnings. General warning for this entire fic - lots of spoilers.
> 
> I decided to write this even though I was going to write it tomorrow, so you technically get two chapters today. Woot! Hopefully the writing didn't suffer for it.

Trystane staggered, finding unsteady footing in what felt like a foot of water; casting a wild glance around him he took in what appeared to be the dank cell walls of a prison, water dripping from the ceiling and all about him, and Dorian half-submerged, having lost his balance in whatever phenomenon had deposed them thus. He was pleasantly surprised to find himself relatively unharmed, and his spear-staff still firmly in his grasp.  

Trystane helped Dorian to his feet. “Displacement… interesting,” Dorian mused with detached interest as he took in his surroundings. “Probably not what Alexius intended. But where… or perhaps the question is not where, but _when_? Alexius used the amulet as a focus – he’s sent us through time!”

Trystane couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he quickly quashed the anxiety bubbling up in his guts. “How far did he send us? Can we get back?”

“Ah yes, excellent question that,’ Dorian said. Trystane could punch him for his nonchalant tone when they were _stranded in an indeterminate point in time_. “I have some thoughts on that, they’re such wonderful thoughts, like pearls-“

At that moment they heard footsteps through the water and turned to see Venatori agents descending a flight of stairs towards them; the room they were in was dimly lit by an ambient red glow and low torches but it was a sort of corridor flanked by cells; on one end of the corridor was the cell in which they were shut, and at the other an archway leading to the stairwell from which two Venatori soldiers approached.

Trystane took his staff in hand, calling on what little ice magic he knew to freeze the lock, followed by a quick strike with the weighted end of his spear, shattering the brittle metal and kicking the door open. He wasted no time in fade-stepping in between the two men and with two circular swipes he struck them down, each sliced deep across the gut.

“Remind me never to try to put you in a cage,” Dorian chirped.

“We need to find out when we are, and how to get back. Come on,” Trystane motioned for Dorian to follow them.

Wherever they were, Trystane felt certain that it couldn’t be Redcliffe Castle; to his knowledge, there was no reason for the Feraldan castle to have a system of dungeons quite so extensive. It was almost maze-like, stairwells and suspended metal bridges over deep chasms twisting and turning through three different levels of cell blocks like the warrens of some ghastly creature. What was most disturbing about the place, however, was the presence of red lyrium.

It was everywhere, spikes of the glowing red crystal clinging to floors, walls, statues and even hanging from ceilings and railings. Not only was it omni-present, Trystane could swear he felt warmth emanating from it, oppressive heat filling the lyrium-choked passageways. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck and his temple and he wiped at it in frustration as Dorian examined it with fascination.

“Is this red lyrium?” he wondered aloud. “Maker, what is it, where it is able to grow on the walls? And what is with this blasted heat?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Trystane said. “It’s foul.”

“Well I most certainly do,” Dorian muttered mostly to himself.

It was after descending two flights of steps, turning across another lyrium-infused chamber and then descending a third stairway that they encountered anyone. Not just anyone. Trystane gaped, open-mouthed and horrified as he saw the body of the former Grand-Enchanter Fiona, her body almost completely consumed by a large node of red lyrium.

“Maker… Fiona?” Trystane called out gently. He was certain she wasn’t alive – who could be, under such circumstances.

“What… who…” he heard the pained voice as the Enchanter stirred, eyes opening with some effort as she looked around and her gaze landed on the two mages. “Impossible. I saw you… disappear… into the rift.”

“Can you tell us the date? It’s important,” Dorian asked immediately.

“Harvestmere… 9:42. Dragon,” Fiona strained under the effort.

“Maker, we missed a year,” Trystane hissed under his breath.

“Trevelyan, you must know. Alexius serves the Elder One,” Fiona continued. It was painful to listen to her ragged breaths, struggling against the red crystals that asserted themselves over her physiology. “More powerful… than the maker. Nobody stands against him and live.”

“Fiona, none of this was meant to happen,” Dorian began. “Alexius sent us through time. If we can return to the moment we came from, we can prevent this from happening.”

“Good,” she sighed.

“I said if,” Dorian corrected her. “It also might eviscerate us.”

“You must try,” she insisted before sliding into unconsciousness. It pained Trystane to see her in such a state.

The two stood in silence for a moment. “Dorian… veilfire consumes mana as fuel,” Trystane muttered. “And if this truly is a form of lyrium, can’t it be burned with veilfire?”

“Quite likely, yes, but conjuring veilfire is rather a lost art,” Dorian said.

With a gesture of his hand, Trystane conjured the white-blue flame on the monstrous red crystal and with only the echo of an a sigh, the memory of an intake of air, the flames erupted across the lyrium, spreading over the former Grand-Enchanter’s body. The veilfire was audible, in the way a whisper is audible only in the quietest of darkened rooms. “I couldn’t leave her like this,” he said as he turned and returned back to the stairway they came from.

Down another stairwell they descended, looking blindly for a way out of this never ending dungeon. If Fiona had been here, then this very likely was still Redcliffe castle. If that were true, then Alexius had made some rather horrendous modifications to the fortress.

They came into another cell block, and Trystane stopped at the doorway, motioning for Dorian to do the same, as they heard a low voice.

“Yes, mother, I’ll have for certain that Trys is safe… Yes, Ser Seamus will accompany, as will his men. Yes, ma, we’ll be quite careful. I don’t think there’s any need for that…” Trystane sprinted to the cell the voice emanated from, the wind leaving him as soon as he saw the person inside. His brother, the once jovial man who he affectionately termed an oaf, Percival. He was gaunt now, face obscured behind his hands as he curled up against the wall of the cell, knees to his chest and hands cradling his face.

“Percy! Percy, it’s me, it’s Trys,” he sank to his knees gripping the bars of the call. Dorian, to one side, quietly melted the latch and opened the door. Trystane staggered to his feet, sloshing through the water and fell again to his knees in front of his brother. Up front he could see the lyrium just beneath the skin, small nodes of it poking through sores in his skin. Percy had stopped talking, looking up slowly and painfully from his cupped hands.

“So this is my final punishment… for failing you,” he let out a broken sob and Trystane cradled his face in his hands.

“My brother, you have never failed me,” he insisted, tears streaming down his face. “I never died. Alexius sent us forward in time. I’m alive. Look at me Percy,” he insisted. At the haunted look in his brother’s face, he almost wished he hadn’t.

“We can go back in time. Stop this from happening. At the very least, we can kill Alexius. Care to join us?” Dorian explained in a rush and Trystane gently nudged his brother to standing.

“If this is another hallucination… it is the best I’ve had in quite a while,” he struggled to speak. “Even if it is, I wouldn’t mind to get back at that evil man, even if only in my head.”

“Good man,” Dorian said. “Do you have a weapon?”

“Aye,” Percival looked to his sword and shield, discarded against a wall nearby. “They never had any need to discard our things when the Elder One had everything he could need. Some of the guards even liked it, like a cruel joke for me to stare at our family’s crest for the rest of my life,” Percival said dejectedly. Percival paced over to the wall, movement becoming steadier as he stretched his limbs, albeit painfully. Trystane shuddered at the occasional glint of red lyrium protruding from just beneath the skin.

“Do you know where to go?” Trystane asked.

“I know where Cassandra is kept,” Percival nodded. “And I know that Cullen is here, somewhere, as well as your spymaster. We would do well to find them.” Trystane nodded and Percy led them up the stairs they had come from, down a side-passage into yet another cellblock; each block looked so similar to the next that Trystane would have sincere difficulty finding his way anywhere in this bleak Hell.

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this World and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water,” they found Cassandra knelt in the water of the cell, reciting the Chant of Light. Cassandra looked up slowly as they approached – Trystane noticed the same red pallor surrounding her, the red light in her eyes. His stomach lurched as he approached. “You – is it true? Has Andraste given us another chance?”

Trystane shattered the lock. “Cassandra-”

“Maker, forgive me, I failed you, I failed everyone,” Cassandra cast her gaze to the ground. “The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life.”

“We aren’t dead; Alexius sent us forward in time. We have to get to him, get the amulet he used so we can send ourselves back and stop this from happening,” Dorian explained hastily.

Cassandra stood immediately, moving towards the door as Trystane heaved it open. “You can make it so that none of this happens? After you died – Empress Celene was assassinated, and in the chaos that ensued no one could stop the Elder One’s rise. An army of demons swept through Thedas. We must prevent this from happening.”

Again Percival led them through the cells, up three stairways to a great suspended drawbridge. As they entered the room the drawbridge lowered, revealing three venatori. Immediately blood-curdling rage spilt from Percy’s lips and he sprinted forward, colliding with one and sending him tumbling off of the platform and into the chasm underneath; Cassandra did the same, growling with long-held rage as she hacked the next Venatori to pieces. Trystane made quick work of the third and final one, a mage who was preparing flame glyphs when the Herald launched his spear into the cultist’s chest.

They made their way up one more stairwell and the architecture became more recognizable, distinctly Fereldan. Trystane thought that perhaps they had ascended into the true original basements of the Castle, and was more than disturbed to see that here still Red Lyrium clung to every surface like a disease.

“If Red Lyrium is like an infection…” Dorian said, “Then _Maker_ , why is it on the walls?”

“Take a guess,” came the harsh interjection from Percival. Trystane looked to him, seeing the grim determination there, the constant pain behind it. It broke him, inside, seeing his brother like this. All the life, all the joy drained from him and all that was left in this violated husk was pain.

There was no talk after that, until shortly after they heard a vicious slap from a nearby room, followed by an imperious tone asking someone about the Herald.

“I will never talk!” they heard Leliana’s defiant voice, followed by another resounding strike. Without second thought Trystane wrenched the door open. A man, another of the Venatori, stood in front of a hanging figure; at the sound he turned, and the legs of the figure lifted around his neck. After a brief struggle they twisted with a sickening snap; the man fell to the ground, dead.

The figure was Leliana – Trystane rushed to retrieve the keys from the corpse, moving in to unlock the shackles that held her suspended from a metal frame. Up close she was perhaps the most horrid sight yet – absolutely gaunt, her features withered away almost to nothing, her skin sallow and splotched. She had none of the red lyrium taint, but she was obviously sick and starved. She rubbed at her sore wrists and Trystane moved in close, tried to reach out with his healing magic.

Leliana swatted his hands away. “Do not waste your time,” she snarled. “You have weapons?” Trystane nodded and she paced over to a chest, retrieving a bow and quiver. Dorian began to launch into his explanation, but was cut short. “Stop – this is some bad dream that you hope never comes to pass. It was real. The world suffered. I suffered. We will make Alexius pay. End of story.”

After a long pause, Trystane spoke up. “Leliana… is Cullen here?”

She did not speak for a long time, appraising him pitilessly, as if he were the one half-dead. “Yes, she hissed. She gestured to a cell at the far end of the room. “They corrupted him in front of me – broke him and made me watch, in hopes that I would break as well. They were wrong.”

Trystane’s stomach fell at the words, if it were still possible. His heart stopped and he broke into a cold sweat as he approached the cell. It was dark, and he had to summon an orb of veilfire in order to see.

In the cold light of the veilfire, striking shadows just barely outlined a figure – it was hardly human, what might have been a human silhouette was now all jagged edges. Trystane rushed to the figure’s side, in spite of Percy’s and Dorian’s protests from nearby. He wasn’t paying attention.

It truly was Cullen, only his upper chest and neck exposed, as well as the left half of his face; the rest of his skull was littered with red lyrium, and the crystals encrusted the entire right side of his body, as well as the lower half and parts of his left arm. He stirred in the sudden light, whining low and painfully.

“Cullen,” a choked sob racked its way through Trystane’s throat. He braced his hands against the man’s chest, warm light cascading from his palms and spreading over the near-corpse.

“Trystane,” a hoarse voice replied. It wasn’t even recognizably Cullens; the lyrium had ravaged his body so thoroughly that even his voice was damaged.

“Cullen, I’m here, I’m going to help you,” he blurted through his rapidly forming tears. The healing light continued to flow from his palms.

“Don’t waste… your energy,” Cullen’s body shifted. “I will be … dead… soon.” Trystane didn’t know how, but Cullen sat up, even if it was with difficulty. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he struggled. “Perhaps I have already died, and this is my punishment… to see your face one last time.”

“You should put him out of his misery,” Leliana said from behind him. Her voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “If you ever cared for him, you will grant him death.”

“Cullen, I can’t,” Trystane pressed his forehead to the exposed part of Cullen’s. “We’re going to save you. I’m going to save you.”

“Please, Trystane,” Cullen said. His left eye opened, ravaged by the red and full of desperation. “Leliana is right. There is nothing you can do for me.”

Tears streamed down the Herald’s face; this was too much for him to bear, but he reached for the dagger belted at his waist. “Cullen, I’m so sorry. I failed you all,” he whimpered and braced the blade against the man’s neck. He stabbed deep into the throat, deep enough to sever the spinal column and grant an instant death. The infernal crystal grated against the blade, permeating the felled templar’s body and scraping against the metal as he retrieved it from Cullen’s neck. He tossed the blade aside. “Go now to the Maker,” he choked back another sob and stood slowly.

“Trys,” Percy was at his back. Even through all of his pain, still a loving brother. “I’m sorry. We need to go.” Trystane nodded, hollow.

“Alexius will pay for this,” was his only response before he turned and led the group from the empty cells.

***

A Venatori at the top of the steps – he was felled in an instant, the rage of the Herald a cold flame. Another, a mage, around the bend of a corridor. Without thinking, Trystane set the lyrium in the Venatori mage’s blood ablaze in cold blue, veilfire consuming him painfully.

They made their way to an entryway with a heavy portcullis connected to a turning winch. Above it, in the center of the square chamber, a rift. Before the demons could even settle on the ground Trystane reached out with the mark, suddenly feeling it intuitively for the first time, latching onto the Rift and sealing with a swift gesture. The demons collapsed into bubbling mist, fading into nothing.

“It has been too long since a rift was sealed,” Cassandra’s tone was bittersweet.

“Sealing one rift is no longer meaningful,” Leliana spat. As they turned the winch and lifted the portcullis, stepping out into the courtyard of the Castle, Trystane understood what she meant. The Breach had spread, consuming the entire sky. The air was tinged with the electricity of lyrium, of the fade, and his mark jolted along his forearm, the connection to the fade lighting it up in pins and needles. There was another rift to close, close by, which they did quickly and a third around a bend at the opposite end of the courtyard. Trystane could feel a growing awareness of the mark, a more intuitive understanding of how to wield it. Twice he was able to seal rifts without having to confront the demons that spilled forth from the Fade.

Leliana led them through the castle. Arrows and spear, magic and blade, all found the Venatori hapless targets, taken by surprise by the first resistance they had encountered in months. Given the size of the castle there were hardly any Venatori to be seen, perhaps only enough to see to the needs of Magister Alexius. They found him barricade behind a mighty door of the ancient Elvhen, sealed magically inside.

“How on earth will we get past that,” Dorian threw his hands up in frustration. “How did he even get it here? Maker.”

“Stand back,” Trystane called confidently. The magic on the door was elven, natural, calling on spirits to defend the lock. He placed his hand against the lock, calling to the spirits in a manner similar to what he did to heal wounds. A warm glow emanated from his palm as one came to his aid, resonating with the lock. The door shuddered as it was thrown open.

“Look at what you’ve done, Alexius,” Trystane called angrily as they stalked through the entry to the Great Hall and towards the fireplace. It was like a grizzly mirror of their first meeting; Alexius stood next to the throne, unmoving, facing the fire.

He was unsurprised by their arrival. “I knew you would return. I knew I hadn’t killed you. My final failure,” his voice was empty save the echo of regret underneath the surface.

“Was it worth it, everything you did to the world?” Dorian asked with a pained expression as he approached the magister.

“It matters not; the Elder One comes. For you, for me, for us all.”

“It does matter,” Dorian hissed. “We can go back, prevent this happening.”

“How many times have I tried?” Alexius deflected. “All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death. There is nothing else.”

Behind the magister there was a quiet shuffle, a shifting of weight and fabric, and Alexius turned to find Leliana hoisting a grey and sunken shell of a man by the collar, dagger to his throat.

“Felix!” Alexius cried, hand outstretched to his son, already all but a corpse.

“Maker, that’s _Felix_?” Dorian was disgusted. “What did you do to him?”

“I saved him,” Alexius sobbed. “He had the Blight. The Elder One promised to keep him alive… I’ll give you anything you want, just let Felix go.”

Before Trystane could respond Leliana dragged the blade across Felix’s throat, slowly, staring Alexius in the eye. “I want the world back, she growled, and Felix collapsed to the ground without a sound, so far gone already that he didn’t even register the gash in his neck.

“No! Felix!” Alexius voice contorted in grief and rage, green mana gathering around his fists and releasing itself around him, knocking everyone back. He prepared another bolt of energy, lashing out towards the Herald; Percival moved in front of him, the Lyrium in his body dampening the magic.

Cold hatred seared deep in Trystane’s stomach as he righted himself, brandishing his spear. It was over before it truly began. He rushed the magister, not even bothering with the fade step; Alexius threw a barrier over himself and Trystane banished it with an engulfing wave of veilfire, still approaching like the onslaught of a storm, whipping the weighted end of the spear into Alexius’ skull. The mage crumpled, collapsing under the brutal impact, but Trystane gripped him by the collar and dragged him up, skewering him with the spear before letting the corpse collapse like a sack of rocks. The mighty magister had never even had time to react.

“Alexius… How could you do this,” Dorian’s voice was hoarse, and as close to gried as Trystane imagined he could be.

“The Alexius in our time isn’t this far gone yet,” Trystane said, biting back a wave of hatred. He didn’t know if he had the self-control to spare the Tevinter magister.

“I suppose you’re right,” Dorian said as he retrieved the green amulet from about Alexius’ neck. “Give me an hour to work out the spell, and we can make the attempt to get back to our time frame.”

“An hour?” Leliana scoffed. “You don’t have that long.” As if on cue, there was an ominous hiss and roar from outside, indistinct but loud, and the foundations of the castle shook. _Is this the Elder One_? Trystane shuddered.

“We will hold them back,” Percival said, with a nod to Cassandra.

“Percy, no,” Trystane said, clasping his brother’s hands in his grasp. “I can’t watch you die. Not you too.”

“Trys,” he said softly, even then the rasp of his ravaged throat and lungs evident in his gravelly voice, “Look at us. We’re dead already. The only way we live is if this day never comes.” At that he parted his hands from Trystane’s, stepping back and Dorian pulled the Herald away gently.

“Go,” Leliana said. “Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.” Percival and Cassandra left through the heavy elvhen door; Leliana stayed poised at the entrance, an arrow at the ready.

They waited in suffocating silence for minutes that felt like hours; the sound of battle outside drew near and Trystane’s stomach churned, gaze fixated on the door. Dorian was muttering behind him, and he could feel the beginnings of magic being woven.

“Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame,” Leliana whispered as she knocked her arrow; the door buckled, collapsing under sheer force. Leliana fired at the first Venatori to emerge, followed by terror demons, shades and other Venatori warriors. One by one they fell to a barrage of arrows, sheathed in holy prayer. Percival’s corpse, bloodied and battered, was tossed to the ground by an encroaching demon. “Andraste guide me,” she called louder, stronger. “Maker,  take me to your side!” An arrow embedded in her shoulder, no reaction; she held her ground, releasing arrow after arrow. When a Venatori encroached on her space she engaged him with the bow, forcing him to the ground as another arrow found its way to her chest. She staggered, remained upright, burning with righteous fury.

Trystane wanted nothing more than to step into the frey, to help her. A firm grasp at his shoulder stopped him. “You move, and we all die!” Dorian’s plea was desperate. Just as Leliana was overtaken, body obscured by shades, the  cascading green energy enveloped himself and Dorian, and then there was silence.

***

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian declared once they had found purchase on solid stone. The first thing Trystane noticed was sunlight filtering in through the windows, untinged by the green of the Breach, and the second thing was the stone on his hands and knees as he collapsed.

He was dimly aware of Alexius to his right, and suddenly the cold flame erupted in the pit of his stomach again. The magister had also sunk to the ground, defeated. Trystane growled in primal rage, jumping to his feet and clearing the distance between himself and the magister in only a few strides, gripping the magister with hands cloaked in Veilfire –

“Trystane!” Cullen’s voice rang out from behind him, and he froze. The magister fell from his grasp, the veilfire extinguished as he turned to see Cullen, Percival and Cassandra standing at the foot of the steps before the Bann’s throne. Felix stood nearby, alarmed and unsure as to whether to intervene, and Dorian next to him, silent.

“Herald, we’re back. They’re not dead,” Dorian’s voice was soft. “Alexius has surrendered. Let him go.” Trystane didn’t see Dorian look to the Herald’s companions, gesture that it was okay to approach.

“Brother, are you-” Percival began before he found himself tackled in a tight embrace.

“Maker you’re alright!” Trystane exclaimed, tears coming again to his eyes and falling silently down his face. “I – it’s a lot to explain. I am so glad to see you, brother.”

“And I you, Trys,” he said fondly but with a small mix of confusion. In the next instant Cassandra was pulled into Trystane’s grasp.

“Seeker Cassandra! Never have I been so happy to see you,” he shouted as the Seeker froze, totally taken by surprise. He released her after a moment and turned to Cullen, silent.

“You’re alive,” he whispered almost to himself before pulling the Commander, as well, into a tight hug. He dug his face into the fur of Cullen’s mantle. “Maker, you’re alright. You’re all alright. Andraste bless you,” he continued to speak so gently that perhaps only he heard himself. Cullen coughed, nervously and Trystane released him, face flushing and eyes red from crying.

“What… just happened?” Cassandra deadpanned. “You two look as if you have been through hell. And you are soaking wet.”

Trystane looked himself over, and the Seeker was right. His dress armor was soiled with water, ash and grime, Fade residue sticking to his skin and he had somehow acquired a cut to his cheek and his upper arm. He grimaced, looking to the ground.

“It’s a long story,” Dorian said. “Best explained later.”

“For now, let’s deal with this mess,” Cullen sighed. His eyes were trained on Trystane, whose body was shoulders were hunched, posture sinking. The Herald was exhausted and in pain – the deep kind of pain that a healer could not tend. Without thinking he stepped forward towards Trystane, wrapping an arm about his shoulders and pulling him close. Trystane was shaking and fell against the man’s side. Dorian was having a similar issue, and Percival moved to support the mage.

“And what becomes of us now?” Fiona spoke up – Trystane had essentially forgotten about her. The events of mere moments ago felt like a faded memory. “We mages must leave Redcliffe after this disaster, but we have no shelter. Where will we go?”

“Go to Haven,” Trystane pulled himself up, staring at the former Grand Enchanter. His eyes were colder than steel. “We still need your help against the Breach.

“And what are the terms of this arrangement?” she said dubiously.

“What choice do you think you have?” Cassandra’s tone was dripping with venom.

“As much as I would like to conscript you all for the pain you’ve caused here – and… elsewhere,” he muttered that last phrase, “We cannot afford to make enemies of those whose aid we require. You’ll join us as allies.”

“That is – quite generous,” Fiona bowed her head graciously. “I will inform my people. Thank you, Herald of Andraste.” She ducked away and out of the Great Hall.

***

“I cannot believe you have given the mages free range of Haven,” Leliana said. “After the chaos they caused.

“We were in a position to demand much more from this alliance. We cannot change it now, it will make the Inquisition look incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst,” Josephine sighed her dissent from next to the spymaster.

“Trystane made a good point,” Cullen said. “While I might not like it, I understand it. We cannot afford to alienate them now.”

Trystane said nothing, staring into the distance and hoping this conversation would end. Cullen had noticed he was quiet, now. Whatever had happened in Redcliffe had hurt him deeply. Dorian had explained, in broad strokes, what had happened. Even someone like Cullen, straightforward and not accustomed to subtlety and deception, could sense that the magister was tactfully leaving certain facts out of the account of events. Trystane had made no effort to speak on the topic at all. In fact, the Herald had barely spoken in the day’s ride back to Haven.

Culled pursed his lips into a thin frown as he looked at the Herald. Concern was written across the Commander’s face, and Josephine and Leliana decided to back off as they sensed something was deeply wrong with Trevelyan. Cullen grasped the Herald’s shoulder and steered him into the war room, where nobody else lingered, and he shut the door.

“Trystane, talk to me. What happened in Redcliffe?” Cullen asked, peering intently into Trystane’s face; Trystane didn’t meet his gaze.

“Dorian told you; we went into the future, a future where Alexius got rid of us. The Elder One, who commands the Venatori, assassinated Celene and conquered Thedas with a demon army. We killed Alexius in that time frame and used his pendant to return,” Trystane summarized the events in a detached manner, like he was listing events from history to which he had no connection.

“That doesn’t account for.. this,” he gestured to Trystane’s posture. He never knew such a tall, proud man could make himself so small. He wasn’t in armor, now. He was in a tunic and breeches under a cardigan that he pulled around himself at all times as if cold.

“I-” Trystane tried to deflect the question but stopped short as he met Cullen’s eyes. “You don’t want to hear what happened.” He muttered.

“I do,” Cullen sighed. “You’re my,” he cast about for a moment for the right word. “You’re my friend. I don’t want to see you suffer.”

“Very well,” Trystane said and tears came silently to his eyes again as he collapsed into a chair that the war table. Cullen took a seat in the chair next to him, angling it to face Trevelyan.

“When we stepped out of the rift in time,” he began, “we were in a prison cell. An extensive one, built under Redcliffe Castle. It was flooded and in disrepair. Red Lyrium clung to the stone, to the cell walls, the banisters, everything.” Cullen listened quietly as Trystane recounted what he had seen in this dark future, his stomach tightening in anxiety and a knot forming in his throat as Trystane described first Fiona, then Percival and Cassandra, finally moving on to describe the meeting with Leliana.

“After we freed her… is when we found you,” Trystane’s gaze was fixated on the ground, the stone dotted with scattered tears. “You were… covered in it. Your body was almost completely red lyrium, worse than Fiona was. I tried to heal you and it did nothing. You woke up and told me not to waste my magic. You begged me to kill you,” his face sank into his hands and his voice devolved into broken sobs. “I couldn’t … I couldn’t leave you like that, Cullen, I had to… I had to kill you. Then Percy, Cassandra, Leliana, they all died defending us while Dorian cast his spell. I had to watch you all die. I was powerless to help,” Trystane broke down, shivering with the force of his tears.

Cullen moved to his side, kneeling in front of the hunched-over man, instinctively wrapping Trystane in his arms. His chest ached to see him this way, torn up over this doomed fate he had experienced.

“Shh, it’s okay, you don’t have to cry,” Cullen said softly. “We’re alright. What you saw – you came back. You saved us from that. We’re going to make sure that never happens,” he muttered reassurances into the man’s shoulder as his sobs subsided.

“It did happen, Cullen, it happened to me,” Trystane whispered. “I had to kill you. How can I look you in the eye after that?”

“You saved me, Trystane,” Cullen responded. He placed one hand under the other’s chin, gently lifting the Herald’s gaze to meet his. “You saved us. Just remember that.”

The two passed a long moment in silence like that; Cullen brushed stray tears from his cheek before gently releasing his hand from under the Herald’s chin.

“Cullen,” Trystane spoke up finally. “I hope you understand. You’re a dear friend to me. I… it was hard.”

“I understand,” Cullen affirmed, still soft. His chest squeezed in an odd, painful way at the Herald’s words. _Friend_.

“Thank you, Cullen,” Trystane finally moved to wipe his face, tension beginning to release from his shoulders. “I needed to get it out.”

“Anytime,” came the immediate response. “Let’s get drinks later. On me,” he grinned that the Herald and was pleased to see a tentative smile in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are appreciated, and the comments I've gotten are seriously making me so happy. Never expected to get any feedback on this at all, really, so your support makes me so excited to continue posting! More to come tomorrow!
> 
> Again, I have no Beta reader and this gets posted essentially as i write them. I'll probably revisit them in the future to make some revisions and edit a little but for now if you see something that should be addressed don't hesitate to let me know! Please keep it positive/constructive though.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane spends some time in Haven before his next mission. This includes surviving Sera, and a few interesting situations.

Trystane leaned back into a broad leather-bound chair in the war room. Leliana, Cullen and Josephine were discussing operations in northern Fereldan and Trystane more or less listened passively as they moved through a few different issues. Some minor lord spreading vitriol about the Inquisition; Josephine said he was a pariah even among his peers, a man whose opinion was not worth courting. Cullen, in the wake of recruiting the mages, was working with Leliana’s agents to round up scattered camps of mages and bringing them into the fold. Josephine was in talks with a supplier of Lyrium out of Orzammar, the capitol of the dwarven kingdom. In meetings like these the Herald’s presence was not strictly required, but the occasional issue did arise in which his input was valuable, particularly in regards to the situation of the Free Marches and reports of fade rifts. In the two days that had passed since Redcliffe he was still muted, even if his demeanor had improved somewhat.

The others let him have his space, involving him where he was needed but allowing him to rest otherwise. He had dutifully seen to his unofficial job with the apothecary and in the sick ward, and continued to run his troops through drills. Percival had taken him hunting yesterday to improve his spirits; the two returned with a sizeable elk and Trystane’s mood had improved slightly.

                When the meeting was over, Trystane stood with a nod to the advisors and paced out of the room. Cullen watched him go, knowing that he was probably going out into the clearing beyond Haven to meditate again. The Herald had spent much of his free time meditating, returning to the village worn out and disappearing into his cabin. Cullen found himself following the Herald, catching up to him just outside of the Chantry. He settled a hand on the back of Trystane’s left arm. “Come with me,” Cullen practically ordered, and Trystane silently followed.

                Cullen led him through the woods on the town’s border, out into the clearing. “Were you going to come here? To meditate again?”

                Trystane nodded. “I just need to clear my head, Cullen,” he said tiredly.

                “Not that way,” Cullen shook his head. “You’re just sealing all these negative things in. You’re exhausted, constantly. I’ve never seen you this way.”

                “You ain’t seen me shoved through a hole in time,” Trystane responded drily.

                “I haven’t. But you’ve got to quit this… moping,” Cullen said. “And I know how.”

                “Enlighten me, ‘O Illustrious Commander,” came the surprisingly bitter response. He didn’t expect the cold rasp of steel as Cullen drew his blade.

                “Spar with me,” Cullen demanded, standing at the ready.

                Trystane backed away a few paces. “Cullen, I can’t,” he sighed.

                “Because of what happened in Redcliffe? I will not let this break you,” Cullen said with a hard edge to his voice. If being gentle wasn’t working with the Herald, being tough would have to. He wasn’t going to let Trevelyan tip-toe around him anymore. Trystane hadn’t even taken him up on his offer for drinks, and he wasn’t one to refuse free ale.

                “You don’t understand,” Trystane was raising his voice; Cullen was glad he hadn’t done this in the training grounds. “I had to kill you. I-“ his breath hitched. “I stabbed you in the throat. I watched the life leave your eyes. And you want me to spar with you now?”

                “That’s exactly what I want,” Cullen said nonchalantly. “I’m starting now, whether you do or not. I’m not holding back.” Shield unstrapped from his back and slung onto his arm, the blonde advanced on the Herald. Cullen lunged, Trystane side-stepping, still effortlessly graceful even in retreat. He tried to step back but Cullen pressed forward, giving him no quarter. Trystane dodged a handful of slashes and lunges until Cullen had forced him into retreat against the great boulder in the clearing’s center.

Exasperated, Trystane drew his spear and Cullen could hear the quiet rush of a barrier sliding over their weapons’ edges. Cullen grinned and advanced for real, sword striking against the mid-section of the spear, pressing the weapons together and closing the distance between them. There was a brief stand-off of the two warriors straining, Trystane trying desperately to create space. Cullen was too close, inside the defenses that he had never had the time to put up. He angled the spear, deliberately letting the blade slide up the shaft of the weapon  and brought the weighted end in an upward arc, Cullen deflecting the blow with his shield. Trystane quickly braced a foot against the shield and tried to kick him back but Cullen planted his feet square and shoved back with the shield, knocking Trevelyan off balance.

Trystane allowed himself to fall against the boulder, then twisted to the side out of the way of Cullen’s incoming vertical slash; Cullen truly was giving him no quarter, not letting up in the slightest. Trystane felt the familiar adrenaline of combat begin to bloom in him, felt his heart begin to pound in growing excitement. Not many swordsmen could stand against him, but the Commander was an exception. He was a true master of the blade and Trystane would wager that he could best some of the most experienced Orlesian chevaliers.

He followed through on his sideways momentum, twisting the spear around him and bringing the haft with a heavy crack against the armor of Cullen’s leg, the barrier cushioning the impact but the force remaining sufficient to force the commander onto the defensive. Trystane stepped back, creating the space that he needed to control this fight.

“That’s much more like it, Trevelyan,” Cullen grinned. Shield up he advanced; he knew Trystane’s strategy against a shield was to feint into a lunge then whip the blunt end of the spear into the side of the shield, knocking it away and creating an opening that he could take advantage of.

As if on cue, Trystane made to lunge at the Commander and Cullen responded by freezing in place, locking his arm against the impact to the side that he expected. Instead Trystane followed through with his lunge. His spear glanced off of the curved face of the shield, headed straight for Cullen’s sword arm. The Commander barely maneuvered out of the path of the blade in time, swinging his arm away and leaving his side undefended. Trystane spung the spear over his back into the other hand, bringing the blunt end against Cullens arm; the blow made a resounding crack as metal collided with the metal of Cullen’s armor. Then Trystane caught him off-guard, bringing the spear spinning into the edge of his shield, and the force of it threw Cullen’s arm wide. In the next instant the Herald’s blade was to his throat.

Cullen smirked at Trystane before bringing his sword up, knocking the blade away when the Herald clearly believed the match to be done. Cullen moved in swiftly, bashing his shield into the man’s unprotected shoulder and sending him to his feet. Cullen stepped onto Trystane’s wrist where he held the spear and brought his own blade to the Herald’s chest.

“What was that you told me about underestimating your enemy?” Cullen chuckled.

“Very well then, you’ve bested me Commander,” Trystane grinned honestly for the first time in days, head resting back against the snow and sighing deeply. “I’m never livin’ this down if Percy finds out,” he chuckled.

Cullen stepped off of the silver-haired man’s arm. Having discarded his shield he extended his hand to the Herald, who smiled and clasped Cullen by the forearm. Cullen pulled him up to his feet.

With the momentum of the movement, Cullen found himself within inches of Trevelyan’s face for just a moment, grey-green eyes piercing his own amber. _Is that lavender_? Cullen thought before he realized that he still held the Herald’s arm in his own, essentially holding the man in his space.

“What are you gonna do now that you’ve bested me, Commander?” Trystane breathed.

“I-” Cullen’s brain refused to cooperate for a moment. Trystane grinned, clearly enjoying his flustered state. “You’re going to buy me drinks,” Cullen said smugly as he released the man from his grasp, stepping back and suddenly he felt the chilled air much more sharply.

Trystane’s face fell in mock disappointment. “And here I thought you said you were buyin’ next time, Cullen!”

“You missed out,” he taunted. “And nothing helps you get back on your feet like a humiliating loss.” He smirked at the red that flushed across Trystane’s expression.

“If that’d been a real fight I wouldna’ stopped at your throat,” he said in exaggerated bitterness.

Cullen just clapped him on the shoulder, fondness in his gaze before he looked away, bringing his arm back up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I went easy on you anyhow,” he chuckled. “I mean it, by the way, you’re buying. I’ll see you at the Rest once I get off-duty.”

“Fine, I’m buyin’,” Trystane chuckled. “Who’da thought you’d be the one draggin’ me to the tavern.”

***

The two made their way back into Haven, parting at the training grounds where Cullen went to resume his duties. Trystane continued on the path into the town and to his cabin, putting a kettle on for tea and conjuring a fire in its pit. He had just settled into a chair with a roll of parchment in hand – copies of Alexius’ research retrieved from Redcliffe – and had begun to look over the densely written notes and diagrams when there was a heavy knock on the door, three raps. He set aside the parchment and stood to get the door. Another mage might have gotten it using force magic, but he didn’t trust his force magic to be precise enough not to rip it off its hinges.

He was surprised to find Cassandra at the door, but smiled politely. “Seeker, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he waved her in.

“I need to speak with you,” Cassandra spoke plainly. It was something Trystane liked about the woman – her bluntness and honesty. At times it could still be a little grating.

“Would you like some tea?” Trystane asked just as the kettle began to whistle and he retrieved it from where it hung over the fire.

“No thank you, I will not impose on you for long,” Cassandra replied. “I… am not very good at this. I wanted to apologize to you for the way I have behaved.”

“Oh, you’ve nothin’ to say you’re sorry for,” Trystane assured her; in all honesty he hadn’t spent much time with the Seeker at all and wasn’t very comfortable with her yet. Still he wasn’t certain what she felt she should apologize for.

“Oh, but I do,” she sighed. “I have been far too antagonistic in my dealings with you. I allowed my feelings from the Temple of Sacred Ashes to effect how I treated you. I am sorry.”

Trystane recalled briefly how he had awoken, dazed and in pain, on the floor of the Chantry basement surrounded by soldiers, threatened with death by the Seeker. How she had taken him to the rifts and ultimately the Breach, using his mark to stabilize it like a weapon.

“It’s in the past, Seeker,” he said. He didn’t necessarily mean they were on friendly terms, but he wasn’t eager to spoil her attempt at reconciliation, and there was no reason to antagonize her. “You had reason to suspect me.”

“My trainers always told me I am too brash,” she said. “I have always felt, when I see something that must be done, that I should do it. When I saw you in the crater of the temple, I determined your guilt immediately. Yet I was wrong,” she sighed and Trystane thought her expression softened. “You have helped us at great personal risk. You have never hesitated to do what you feel is right. And you have endured much for the Inquisition, and will likely endure more in the days to come. I want you to know – I am glad I was wrong about you.”

“I…” Whatever Trystane had been expecting from the Seeker, it certainly wasn’t this. “I really appreciate that, Seeker. I want you to know I don’t hold anythin’ against you.”

“That is kind of you,” Cassandra said. “And please, call me Cassandra.”

“If you call me Trystane,” he replied with a grin.

At that moment his brother came barreling into the room. “Trys! Hide me –“ he stopped short when he saw Cassandra there. “What did ye do now, brother,” he taunted.

“Way to ruin a moment, you lout. Cassandra, thank you,” he nodded to the Seeker who gratefully bowed out of the cabin. “What’s this ‘bout hidin’ you?”

“Sera ‘n I – never mind, just hide me!” he said at the approaching sound of a raised voice. Trystane pulled him into a corner of the cabin, taking a handful of water from a basin on his desk. They had done this many times as children, and Percival crammed himself into a corner while Trystane cupped the water in his palm, charging it with magic and then releasing it into the air. It hung, suspended and stretched itself out in the air in an impossible thin layer over Percival. It formed an iridescent surface, colors shifting as it settled just over the man, smooth like molten quicksilver. The enchanted water obscured him, changing color to blend into the corner of the room and soon he was all but invisible. Trystane paced back over to his kettle and resumed preparing his tea just as an angry Dorian stormed into the cabin.

Trystane’s eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the Tevinter mage drenched in some liquid – cooking fat, if he had to guess by the smell.

“You!” he said and pointed an angry finger at the Herald. “Where is your conniving shit of a brother? Look what he and that blasted Sera did to my robes!”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Trystane sighed. “I’m no’ my brother’s keeper.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, I saw him running this way,” Dorian narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze around the small cabin. “Where could he be hiding, I wonder?”

Trystane poured a dash of the elderberry wine into a mug, followed by the tea and stirred it absentmindedly. “Not here,” he said. “Perhaps you should go clean yourself off before your robes stain?”

“Oh, they’re marred irrevocably, I’m sure,” Dorian was irate. “And I know you’re harboring your fool of a brother!”

“Aye, he is certainly a fool,” Trystane chuckled. “But that goose fat is stinking somethin’ foul.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, staring Trystane down. The silver-haired mage returned his gaze nonchalantly. The silence was only interrupted by the sound of Sera’s snide laughter from somewhere outside the cabin.

“Aha! There you are, you cretin!” Dorian exclaimed and sprinted from the room. Once he was gone Trystane dispelled the enchanted water with a wave of his hand, and a slightly damp Percival stepped out from the corner.

“Am no’ a fool,” he huffed.

“What did the poor man do to deserve to be doused in duck lard?” Trystane tried to bite back the laughter tickling his throat.

“Oh, he’s been preenin’ like a cock all day an’ Sera reckoned he could be taken down a notch,” he said while he ran his hands through his long black hair, tidying it where it was tied back.

“You know one of these days she’ll decide that you’re needin’ the same thing,” Trystane sighed, but then chuckled softly at the thought of Percy receiving the same treatment. “Perhaps I should give the lass some ideas,” he said mischievously.

“Nah, she likes me better than you anyway,” Percy smirked. “Anyhow I better run, I don’ think Sera will keep him distracted long!” With that he bounded out from the door. A few moments later he heard Dorian yelling after him.

***

His last duties of the evening were in the sick ward. There were relatively few patients there now, as the Herald’s spirit healing ensured that recovery was rapid and kept the number of sick and injured staying there relatively low. He was performing routine inspection on a soldier, magic emanating deep into a fractured rib to ensure that it stayed set, accelerating the healing and soothing the bruised flesh. This is where Leliana found him.

He had had little to no interaction with the spymaster; she kept busy and their interactions had been limited to businesslike exchanged.

“Herald, I thought I might find you here,” she said as she descended the stairs into the dimly lit ward and spotted him kneeling over the wounded man.

“Somehow that’s no’ surprisin’,” Trystane chuckled and stood straight. He addressed a Sister nearby, one of the sick ward’s volunteers. “He ought to be healed up within a couple of days. Make sure to keep a poultice on that for swelling.” She nodded and he met the Spymaster as she approached. “What can I do for you, Sister Nightingale?”

“Please, call me Leliana,” she said. “I wanted your thoughts on something that has been on my mind lately.”

“Of course,” he said politely and led her to a sitting area. “What’s on your mind?”

“My agents have found something troubling,” she began. “The Wardens across Orlais and Feraldan appear to be missing. The Wardens never have a pronounced presence, but there are usually traces of them, scattered, recruiting new members or fighting isolated bands of darkspawn.”

“And what does your gut say about that?” Trystane asked.

“I don’t know, but the disappearance of the Wardens cannot be good. The timing is too suspicious. The others have disregarded my suspicions, but I cannot ignore it.”

“And what do you need from me?” Trystane knew where this was leading.

“We have located one Warden, going by the name Blackwall, somewhere in the Hinterlands. We don’t know what he is doing there,” she replied. “I was wondering if you would speak with him. I think you have a better chance at getting to him than my agents.”

“I… admit that it is suspicious timing,” Trystane nodded. “I’ve got to go to the Hinterlands soon anyway, I’ll check on it while I’m there.”

“Thank you, Herald,” she said. With that she bowed her head and disappeared up the steps into the Chantry proper.

***

Trystane made his way to the Herald’s Rest just before the eighth evening bell, when he knew Cullen would be wrapping up his duties in the training field. He took his usual seat at a table at the side of the room and motioned to Flissa. It was a particularly chilly day and when she came to the table, he said “Do you think you could whip me up some of that mulled wine? That’d be perfect,” he grinned when Flissa nodded vigorously before disappearing into he back of the tavern. No matter how many times he drank at the Rest, Flissa couldn’t seem to get accustomed to his presence.

It wasn’t too long before Inquisition soldiers started to filter into the tavern, their drills done for the day and ready for a drink. Trystane was pleased when Flissa brought a mug of hot mulled wine to him, savoring the flavor of citrus and spice in the sweet drink as he sipped at it, cupped between his hands.

He felt a hand on his back and turned, seeing a tall, burly man, one of the templars who had come with Cullen, leaning over him. His breath stank of ale. “Hello there Herald,” the man said to him with a low voice. “Drinking alone tonight?”

“Waitin’ for a friend,” Trystane said politely. The man was standing very close to him.

“That’s a shame. I was thinking you could keep me company tonight,” the man’s hand roved over the small of his back and Trystane shifted uncomfortably, swiveling on the bench to get the hand off his back. The templar set his grip on his thigh, instead. “Come on, rumor has it you can take templar cock like a champ.” Trystane scrunched up his nose and swatted the hand off his thigh, setting the mug aside.

“Not interested,” he scowled.

“Don’t be that way,” the man said louder, moved in closer, his hand reaching for Trystane’s long silver hair, tied into a ponytail and falling over his shoulder. He moved to pick up the end of it. “You’re so pretty for a man, with hair like this you could almost be a woman.”

“I believe the Herald said he wasn’t interested,” Cullen’s irate voice came from behind the templar. “Leave the man alone, Corvish.”

“I – Commander! I didn’t know you were coming,” Corvish removed his hand and backed off. “Was just messin’ around sir, meant nothin’ by it.” Cullen just narrowed his eyes, arms crossed and didn’t respond. The templar hastily made his way back to his friends at a nearby table and the group got up and left.

“Thanks Cullen, but I can take care of the likes of him,” Trystane sighed as Cullen walked around the table and took a seat opposite him.

“I knew word traveled about you and Dunlain,” Trystane quirked an eyebrow when Cullen brought it up. “I hope you two aren’t bothered by such talk,”

“Dunlain and I? I hope you don’t think we’re together, Cullen,” Trystane rolled his eyes. “Dunlain’s a good man but that was a one-time thing.” Cullen looked oddly relieved.

“I’m sorry, it’s not my place to presume,” the blonde said as Trystane flagged down the barmaid.

“Is not a big deal,” Trystane grinned. “I can handle rumors. And arseholes like him.”

“I think he was in more danger than you were,” Cullen noted drily and looked to the dagger at Trystane’s belt.

Trystane chuckled, nodded, and was quiet for a moment. “Do those rumors bother you?” he asked without making eye contact.

“Only on your behalf,” Cullen said. He also was looking down to his ale.

“Well there’s no reason to be lookin’ so down then,” Trystane raised his mug and, grinning, Cullen did the same, the glasses clinking in the air over the table and they both took a drink.

“Now that’s much better than you bein’ all mopey ‘n shite,” Trystane heard Sera approaching from his side, skipping over and sliding onto his side of the table. “If you’d been falling on your sword – or spear, thingey, whatever – I’d have to get you a pie to the face.”

“Thas’ not necessary, you bloody weapon,” Trystane laughed. “Sorted things out with Cullen and now I’m feelin’ much better.”

“Oh, you two finally did it?” She gave a snide laugh when Cullen sputtered into his drink. Trystane hid his laugh behind his mug.

“No we just sparred,” Cullen said when he regained his composure. “Why is everyone so fixated on this?”

“Oh, you _sparred_ ,” Sera said with a wink. “I understand completely.” Trystane couldn’t suppress his laughter any more and Cullen gave him a despairing look. The Herald, it turned out, was incorrigible. “Saw how he came to your rescue, yeah? Like your _big bad lion_ ,” Sera continued to cackle and Cullen was beet-red.

“What do you mean, everyone’s fixated on what?” Trystane asked, realizing what Cullen had said.

“He _means_ ,” Sera said, not willing to let the subject change, “How everyone’s got bets on how long it takes you two to shack up.”

“And who’s got money on never?” Trystane asked. Cullen’s expression became difficult to read. He almost looked disappointed.

“Nobody, we’re not idiots,” Sera scoffed.

“Maker preserve me,” Cullen breathed as he sat back and downed a sizeable swig of ale. Sera, having had her fun, gave Trystane one last wink, made a naughty gesture with one hand forming a circle and the other with two fingers forward, and then got up from the table and went on the move for her next target.

“Forget this Elder One, the real enemy is Sera,” Trystane muttered into his wine. Emptying the mug, he set it down and called to Flissa for another one.

“We’ll need more than an army for that one,” Cullen laughed. The air between them was charged as the two men racked their brains for a change in topic.

I, uh… hear you’re going to the Hinterlands for a few things,” Cullen said. Silently he cursed himself for the awkward transition. He was a conversationalist the same way Vivienne was modest. That is to say, he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Trystane looked grateful for the change, however. “Leliana’s agents have word of a bandit group that’s taken up in an old villa in the region. That, and Solas has turned up something interesting research on those glowing skulls we’ve seen scattered about… and I’m looking into a Warden issue for Leliana.”

“That’s a lot on your plate,” Cullen said. “Hopefully not too much.”

“Oh, is all part of my job,” Trystane said. “Doin’ stuff like this usually takes me to rifts, and since sealin’ them is kind of my job description, it just makes sense. And I like getting to help people.”

Trystane’s eyes met Cullen’s, which had been trained on him the entire time. He found the man looking at him with something kind, almost sweet, like admiration.

“That’s a good outlook to have,” Cullen cleared his throat and looked down. Again there was a small awkward pause.

“Well, and it’s something to do until Therinfal,” Trystane said. “Josephine says it’ll be two weeks to get the nobles gathered and ready. According to our diplomat she’s successfully garnered the interest of the Lord Seeker.”

“I see,” Cullen said. “It’s a good thing we’re going after the templars too. After the business at Redcliffe, I feel uneasy about their disappearance.”

Trystane nodded, took a deep drink of the hot wine that Flissa brought him. “I know how you feel,” he whispered. “Are you coming to Therinfal as well?”

Cullen swallowed nervously. “No,” he said. “Leliana and Cassandra decided it would be too… personal for me. And I agree.”

The two men both drank, Trystane looking at the blond from over the lip of his mug. “It’s going to be alright,” he said. “We’ll get the templars, and soon this chaos will be dealt with.”

“You know, you could stay in Haven until it’s time for Therinfal,” Cullen found himself saying. “It’s much better with you here.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Trystane sighed, leaned back and drank. “But I’ve a job to do. Gotta put this Maker-cursed thing to use,” he opened his left palm and set it on the table, the constant dim glow of the Mark casting a faint green pallor on the wood. Without thinking Cullen put his hand next to Trystane’s, thumb brushing over the mark gently as he looked at it. It felt like a scar, except it was cold, and even the non-mage could feel the thrum of energy from it.

“I…” Trystane said, looking at Cullen’s thumb brushing over his palm, heat filling the space between their hands. Suddenly he was hyper aware of the sensation in his hand until Cullen drew his away, flushing slightly. The tenth bell rang then, and he looked up and out a nearby window. “I should retire for the night,” he sighed.

“Me too,” Cullen said and stood stiffly. “Thanks for the drinks,” Cullen said.

“Next time we spar, I’m putting you on your back and then you owe me,” Trystane joked as he got up. They made their way through the door and parted there, Cullen’s cabin being on the opposite side of Haven. Trystane looked after him for a moment before turning and walking to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are super appreciated! Thanks to everyone who reads. I'm trying to update daily so come back for more!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane encounters Warden Blackwall while tending to business in the Hinterlands; upon his return, he receives grave news out of the Fallow Mire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter again, this one got away from me. I didn't want to break it up though. Trystane can't catch a break.

“Ain’t no way I’m touchin’ that creepy shite,” Sera said and backed away from the skull mounted on a short engraved stave – an _Ocularum_ , Solas had called it.

“Come on, ‘s perfectly harmless,” Trystane laughed as he bent over the staff, looking through holes that had been carved into the back of the skull, through crystal lenses that had been set into the eye sockets.

“According to my findings, this should act to illuminate something when charged with magic,” Solas said. “Although I do not know what. I was only able to find a vague mention of it.”

“Where, in a book or in your dream thingies?” Sera scowled. Magic made her thoroughly uncomfortable, something Trystane had forgotten about when choosing her to accompany him into the Hinterlands.

“It was in the Fade, yes,” Solas said with more than a hint of irritation. Trystane knelt so that he could better peer through the skull and brought one hand up to cradle it, air charging with the ozone smell of mana. Suddenly the skull came to life, enchanted whispers fluttering through the air around them.

“Of, _fuck that right up the arse,_ ” Sera said and backed up several meters. “If you wind up possessed or some shite I ain’t gonna hesitate to stick an arrow up yours, you hear me?”

“Gotta admit that makes me a tad nervous,” Percival said from behind him somewhere, and Trystane heard his brother backing up as well.

Through the lens the Herald could see with astonishing clarity. They were perched high on a hill overlooking the valley of Fort Connor. Not only did the skull seem to focus his vision, but he could see a handful of faint glimmers from across the countryside before him. Maneuvering the skull, they each sparked to life and focus as he maneuvered the gaze of the ocularum upon them.

“Fascinatin’…” Trystane said. “Solas, take a look at this.” When he stood, he found he could _still_ see the shimmering markers and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “I can still see it,”

“Very likely, looking through the skull has enchanted your vision. I wonder how long it will last,” Solas noted. He then looked through the lens as well, moving through much the same motions that Trystane had while focusing the device. “I think we should investigate,” Solas said.

“Why? Why should we investigate some demon shite?” Sera whined.

“Because it’s bizarre magic, and shouldn’t be left for some baddy to find?” Trystane said and nudged her playfully.

“You’re lucky you’re on my good side, Lord Sparkles,” she screwed up her face and stuck her tongue out.

“Lord Spar-” Percival choked on his sudden laughter. “Oh this is _too good._ ”

“Thanks, Sera,” Trystane sighed.

After an hour or so’s hike they managed to visit all the sites marked by the Ocularum. At each site they found a shard of runed stone, lyrium worked into its surface. On their own they seemed quite unremarkable, except for the residual energy that seemed to have been activated by the ocularum. Trystane gathered the shards, putting them together in a leather pouch and giving them to Solas. This is certainly something he would bring to the attention of Leliana’s people.

The next day was spent in some of the routine matters that Leliana and Josephine had tasked him – he began by checking in on Corporal Vale and others at the crossroads, as well as by making a brief stop in Redcliffe to check on the development in moving the mages out of the town. The busy was filled to the brim with activity, carts of mages and their belongings leaving the village and residents who had been displaced flocking back to it. It didn’t help that those whose homes were damaged or destroyed in the fighting had decided to make their way to the town as refugees. Disturbed by the chaos he found there, Trystane sent a raven to Leliana to ask for agents to come to facilitate the transition.

Their next order of business was to track down the Grey Warden, Blackwall. A scout had told them that Blackwall was confirmed to be residing in a cabin on the shore of nearby Lake Luthias. They also reported that several young men had been seen there, and there was speculation that these were potential warden-recruits. Trystane made his way to the Inquisition camp near Lake Luthias. The lake was admittedly a small one, little better than a pond, and it dominated the flattened out ridge of one of the taller hills in the area. The Inquisition camp sat a little further down the ridge, and it was perhaps a ten-minute hike uphill to reach the level of the lake.

The lake itself was spanned by a wooden bridge, and in the center of it was a small islet holding an avvar shrine, three standing stones flanked it, and it bore an inscription telling part of the tale of an Avvar legend, Tyrdda Bright-Axe. The bridge they took passed alongside the shrine, intersecting with the midsection of another bridge that took them directly to the lone cabin on the far shore. It was obviously a fisher’s hut, drying racks and fishing equipment lined up on the bank and a small rowboat stowed nearby. As they stepped off the bridge they didn’t see anyone, but they did hear the impact of swords on shields on the far sight of the hut. As they rounded the cabin they could also make out a distinct, gruff voice.

“That’s a shield, block with it! It’s not there to look pretty. These men will not make this easy! You have to earn it,” it was Fereldan, by the sound of the voice. Trystane guessed it belonged to Blackwall, and as they made their way to the far side of the cabin they saw him.

He wasn’t terribly tall or short, a little squat but that may have been an effect of the padded doublet he wore; he had a sword in hand, pacing in between three pairs of young men who sparred doggedly, clearly tired.

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?” Trystane said as he approached.

“That’s not – who are you?” Black wall whirled around at the intrusion. Trystane and his companions were only a yard or so away. Suddenly an arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing the Herald and embedding itself in a support beam of the cabin. “That’s it – help or get out of the way!” he growled and grabbed a shield laying at his feet.

From the treeline nearby a handful of warriors, bandits by the look of them, emerged from hiding and charged the cabin. Trystane drew his spear and threw a barrier over Blackwall and his hapless recruits, who were shakily holding their shields and not moving. Almost immediately an arrow hit one of them, but the magic of the barrier dampened the impact and prevented it from penetrating the fabric of the boy’s tunic. The first bandit to draw close to Trevelyan felt the sharp crack of the weighted end of the spear against his temple and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Trystane moved on to the next one, who charged him with shield up. It only took a moment to bat the shield from his grip and slash across his gut. Blackwall was locked in combat with two of them who tried to take him simultaneously, and Solas had frozen one nearby. Percival cut down another and then moved to finish the one that Solas had frozen. Sera moved to help Blackwall, an arrow finding its way into one of the flanking men’s skulls. The man swayed on his feet for a moment before falling over backwards.

The final bandit swung his war hammer in a broad arc at the level of Trystane’s head. It was clumsy, the man overextended; Trystane ducked under the blow and came up within the man’s space, spear embedded in his gut. He braced a foot against the man, kicking the corpse off of his blade. Around him the rest of the bandits had been finished off. Blackwall’s recruits hadn’t moved.

“You,” Trystane gestured to one of them, then nodded to the unconscious bandit. “Tie this one up so he can go to Redcliffe for his crimes.” The man nodded, quiet but frantic and moved to the cabin to find a rope.

“Now do you mind telling me who you are?”

“Trystane, agent of the Inquisition,” he deliberately left out the Herald part – that was others’ title for him, not his own. “The divine dies, the mages and templars implode into anarchy, and suddenly the Wardens disappear. We are investigating whether those things are related.”

“The Wardens – surely you can’t think we’re involved? Our purpose is not political.” Blackwall scowled. His complexion was ruddy, pockmarked and red, but it was mostly hidden under an untamed bristly black beard.

“Is it fightin’ bandits on behalf of farmers’ boys?” Trystane sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He really hoped this hadn’t been for nothing.

“Wardens inspire people,” Blackwall said. “These young men’s families were threatened by bandits. So I conscripted them, taught them to hold a sword. Next time it happens, they can do it themselves.”

“Inspirin’, Blackwall, truly,” Trystane began to turn away. “But I take it you don’t know anythin’?”

“Nothing, ser,” Blackwall confirmed. “My mission is to wander the countryside, recruiting. But the Wardens do that, don’t we? When there’s no darkspawn threat, we disappear.”

“You don’t understand,” Trystane said. “All of the Fereldan and Orlesian wardens appear to be missin’. You are the first we’ve found.” He nodded to his companions, confirming that they were leaving, and the group began to walk away.

“Ser – Agent, you said? If it’s help with the breach you need, perhaps you could use a warden. I could help,” Blackwall interrupted them.

Trystane turned, looked him in the eye. There was determination there, and his gut told him that the warden wanted to help. “Very well, Warden Blackwall. Get your things and we’ll head out.”

***

In another two days they had returned to Haven, warden in tow. The others were in a strategic meeting when they arrived – Trystane figured it was as good a time as any to debrief them about the situation in the Hinterlands, and so he headed straight for the war room upon arriving.

The advisors were grim-faced around the war table.

“Trystane,” Cullen’s expression lifted only for a brief moment. He stood and made way for the Herald to come to the table, where he saw a missive spread out between the three advisors. “It’s good you’ve arrived,” he said and handed the missive to him.

_Nightingale,_

_Our forward scouts north of the Frostback Basin have been taken._

_The Hand of Korth, son of an Avvar war-lord, has moved them to Hargrave Keep_

_in the Fallow Mire._

_The barbarians will only negotiate with the Herald directly._

_Fletcher_

“When am I going?” Trystane said, and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief.

“We were going to leave the decision up to you,” Leliana said. “Since it puts you in danger.”

“I’m glad you volunteered. We hadn’t even asked yet,” Cullen said with a smile. “As much as I dislike sending you to deal with the Avvar, I don’t like the idea of our people in their hands. Especially in a place as desolate as the Fallow Mire – it’s a swamp south of the Hinterlands, just north of the Frostback basin.”

“We have already prepared for your departure,” Josephine added. “You can rest if you want but truthfully, this appears to be a time-sensitive matter. With luck, you will be back before we planned on leaving for Therinfal.”

Trystane nodded. “Let me go get a group together. I’d rather let those who came with me to the Hinterlands rest. I suppose Solas or Percival will have to debrief you,” he said.

“Herald-” Cullen stopped him as he turned to leave. “Thank you.” Trystane gave him a tired smile and a nod.

Two hours later he had gathered together the Iron Bull, Dorian and Varric to accompany him to the Fallow Mire. Blackwall had also joined them, eager to prove himself as the newest addition to their motley crew. Percival had argued against being left behind but given that he had spent the past four days in the Hinterlands, he was persuaded to rest. “Ma would string me up if she knew I was lettin’ ye go deal with some barbarian warlord on your own,” he had said, but Trystane was firm. It was also easier convince him once he learned they were going to a stagnant, disease-ridden bog.

“Bull, Varric, Dorian, this is Warden Blackwall,” he said as he joined the group with their newest addition. “He’s volunteered his aid in the absence of his fellows.”

“Maker, Silver, you pick up a stray every time you leave Haven,” Varric chuckled.

“You offend me, Master Tethras, I am no stray,” Dorian said with mock drama.

“A Warden? Always wanted to meet one of you,” Iron Bull ignored Varric’s remark. “Name’s Iron Bull, but I’m guessing you figured that one out. Horns. Run the Bull’s Chargers merc group. You Gray Wardens are well-known even in Qunandar.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Blackwall did not seem pleased. “You keep interesting company, Herald.”

Trystane chuckled, reaching up to clap the Bull on his back. Trystane was well above average in height and musculature for a human, but he was still dwarfed by the ripped Qunari mercenary. “Can’t be picky when you’re trying to put together a movement of heretics trying to fight a breach in the fade,” he joked. “But we can finish introductions while we ride; we need to make it to the Fallow Mire in under a day, at least. Let’s get a move on.”

“You got it boss,” Bull said. He was perhaps the only one pleased at the prospect of fighting the Avvar. They mounted their horses and made their way out of Haven, descending into the foothills and on the road to the Frostback Basin.

***

The trip to the edge of the Mire was decently uninhibited, and they arrived just as the moon was rising that evening; Trystane figured it would be around the tenth evening bell. Scout Harding was to meet them at an Inquisition forward scouting camp. As they rode the Hinterlands eventually became grassland, which in turn became riddled with streams and ponds, until they were in a veritable marsh. Before long they were at the edge of the Fallow Mire, uphill from the fetid swamp that lay between them and the captured soldiers. Harding met them at the forward camp, which lay in the outskirts of a deserted village; Trystane wondered why it was empty. In this part of the world, not far from the Korcari Wilds, there were many such villages that had been obliterated by the Fifth Blight.

“Herald. It’s good of you to come; I don’t know how much longer we can expect these Avvar to keep our agents alive,” Harding said once they had dismounted. Another agent took the horses into a run-down stable, one of the remnants of the deserted village. Trystane thought in passing on how Harding was becoming a fixture of his missions around Thedas; the young dwarf woman had established the forward operating camps in every territory they had sent him into. Her reconnaissance skills were quite sharp and the intel she provided was always reliable. In fact, given how rushed this operation had been he was impressed that she had gotten here to set up a camp at all.

“If it’s a meetin’ with me they’re after they’ll soon regret it,” the Herald replied. He was tired from two consecutive journeys on horseback, even his regenerative aura as a healer not keeping up with the demands he was placing on his body.

Blackwall grunted behind him. “It takes a lot of resources to keep prisoners for very long. Hopefully they haven’t decided we aren’t showing.”

“I’d still be careful if I were you,” Harding warned. “These Avvar are a tough bunch, but to even get to them you have to cross the Mire to get to the ruins of Hargrave Keep. It’s a Fereldan outpost that was lost to the Blight. This Hand of Korth is the chief’s son, and he’s decided that he wants to test his mettle against Andraste’s Chosen.”

“I supposed we ought not keep the Hand waitin’,” Trystane sighed and looked to his companions. “Are we all ready?”

“I suppose I’m going to be getting new robes. Again,” Dorian sighed. “You Trevelyans are going to ruin me.”

Iron Bull just gave him a side-eye. The Qunari had spent a lot of time on Seheron, the front lines of ongoing war between Tevinter and the Qun. It was occupied by both forces and according to Bull it was a living hell; there were incursions from Qunari deserters, Tevinter (or Vint, as Bull called them) mages and slave soldiers, and the native rebels called Fog Warriors. It was needless to say that the Iron Bull disliked Dorian on general principle. “You’ll live, Vint,” he sneered. Dorian didn’t respond.

“One more thing, Herald,” Harding interrupted them as they turned to go. “You’re going to have to fight your way through a bunch of undead. The path through the bog is littered with them. Hope you’re not squeamish.”

“Why would I be? They’re nothin’ but corpses possessed by spirits,” he teased. Iron Bull gave another dissatisfied growl; as much as he craved combat, spirits and possession bothered the hell out of him. Apparently that was another Qunari thing.

As they descended the gentle slope from what was a general wetland toward the bog, the first thing to hit them was the smell. The stench of stagnant water, algae and rot was overpowering. If Trystane didn’t need to conserve his energy he would absolutely have used a wind charm to get some fresh air. The bog was scattered with tall trees, mostly dead and rotting with the exception of a few that found purchase on the occasional patch of dry land. It almost looked like this region might have been pretty once, when these trees had been alive, perhaps before this stretch of land filled with fetid, stagnant water.

The second thing they saw was three walking corpses shambling their way up the hill, armed with rusted-through swords. His companions braced for combat but Trystane put a hand up to stop them.

“There’s an easier way to take care of them,” he said and with a gesture conjured a will-o-the-wisp in the air before him. The small orb of iridescence floated around, darting through the small space in front of the Herald with what might have looked like curiosity. Trystane motioned towards the corpses and the Wisp flickered its way towards the undead that were a mere ten or so yards away, still stumbling clumsily towards the Herald and his companions.

At the Will-o-the-Wisp’s approach the corpses stopped, turning their attention to the shining sphere that floated in between them. Trystane’s companions were dumbfounded to see the corpses almost _shimmer_ and then collapse as smaller bright green wisps emerged from their rotting chests; the wisps circled the one that Trystane had conjured, eventually fading in the light of the larger iridescent Will-o-the-Wisp.

“Interesting…” Dorian put a hand to his moustache as they continued down the path. “What did you do?”

“It’s a Will-o-the-Wisp,” Trystane said as the flickering light returned to him, illuminating their path surprising well. “They’re a particular kind o’ wisp, infused with veilfire. Other spirits are attracted to them, and legend ‘as it that they shepherd other spirits into the Fade.”

“You know I don’t got a problem with you boss,” Iron Bull said, “But that shit’s just creepy.” Trystane chuckled as they finally set foot in the bog.

There was an old, most likely rotting raised wooden path that connected the isolated bits of dry land that jutted out of the inky water. The Inquisition group was wary at first to use it, but it was less risky than setting foot into the bog and getting an infection. To their surprise the bridge held, and save for isolated sections that had fallen through, they were able to make their way to the next stretch of reasonably solid land. The stench was overpowering and Trystane found himself holding a kerchief to his nose, to Blackwall’s and Bull’s amusement. Varric and Dorian were following suit.

“Maker’s blessed ass, this place smells worse than the deep roads,” Varric muttered as they made their way down towards what looked like an abandoned cabin; ahead and on their left they saw another raised path. The cabin was rotted through, the roof collapsed, and they decided to ignore it and continue towards the next path.

It was only a few yards long, essentially a low bridge over a strip of water that separated the cabin from a hill nearby. Atop the hill was an intriguing sight: a longe spire, stone in an unidentifiable style. When they got closer they found an empty sconce, a glyph carved into the stone below it.

“That’ll be a veilfire sconce,” Trystane said as he inspected the rune below the empty metal cage.

“Or it could be a sconce for a normal fire,” Blackwall suggested.

“No, this is a veilfire glyph beneath it,” he said and Bull sighed.

“Why couldn’t I sign on for some normal crap,” the Qunari muttered. Trystane chuckled at his dismay and with a gesture lit the veilfire. In response there was a piercing shriek and energy filled the wooden platform surrounding the stone column. Trystane felt the energy of a demon’s arrival before he saw it, shoving Varric out of the way as a Terror sprang from the ground beneath them.

As far as demons went, Trystane felt that Terrors were relatively easy to handle. They were unnaturally tall, lanky things on two legs and they usually looked like a collection of whatever loose material existed where they came into existence. This one was slimy, rotted wood and mud, and it raised a featureless head o the sky and another shriek filled the air. Dorian was quick to the punch, hitting it with a ball of flame as Trystane cast a barrier over the group. In the periphery of his vision he saw corpses coming up the hill on all sides.

“Focus on the demon!” Trystane said as he dodged a swipe of the  Terror’s claws, and in a flash of silver the arm was sliced off by the arc of the spear. Bull came crashing into the demon then, his enormous war-axe cleaving the demon through its midsection and the Terror collapsed in bubbling green mist.

Around them the corpses collapsed not a moment too soon, one falling mid-swordstroke to Varric’s side. The veilfire went from white-blue to the color of normal flame, and the platform filled with warm light.

“Well thas’ useful,” Trystane said as he surveyed the empty stretch of mire around them. “The veilfire attracts whatever demon is raisin the dead here, and once we kill it the spirits it bound are free. If there are more o’ these spires then we can clear a path free of undead to the Keep.”

“Good call, boss,” Iron Bull breathed as he came down from his adrenaline rush.

***

The Inquisition group traveled deeper into the Mire without too much difficulty. A little while after the first, they encountered another spire on a raised platform and like the first, it held a veilfire sconce. Trystane lit it, they dispatched the Terror that ambushed them, and continued to another abandoned cabin that they spotted from the hilltop.

This one wasn’t in nearly as bad condition. In fact, the interior was almost dry. They were surprised to find a lone Avvar just outside the cabin on the other side, peering up to an inactive Rift with a great war-hammer leaning onto his shoulder.

Trystane brandished his spear as he approached the Avvar. He had never seen one up close – he was huge, almost as tall as the Iron Bull, with painted mud caked onto every inch of exposed skin on his face and arms. He wore heavy ceramic armor lined with the pelt of an entire bear, the hackles of the bear falling down his back in an impressive mane.

“I think Curly would have fur-envy if he saw this guy,” Varric said wrily. Trystane fought back the urge to laugh as they drew near to the Avvar.

“Are you with the Hand of Korth?”

“Aye, I am of his clan, but you’ll have no worries from me Lowlander,” he said in a thick broguish accent.

“Then what are you doin’ here,” Trystane said.

“My business is rites for the dead, reading the signs of our Lady of the Sky, mendin’ for the injured, a dagger for the dead,” the Avvar was grim.

“A shaman, then,” Dorian suggested.

“My chief’s son would have you fight him, to pit our gods against each other, Herald of Andraste,” the shaman said. “But I’ll no’ pick up a blade for a whelp’s trophy hunt.”

“Well before we pass, I’m going to seal that Rift,” Trystane said.

“You can heal the tears in Her skin? We’ll see abou’ that,” the shaman scoffed. Trystane gestured for everyone to step back. He knew he couldn’t seal it as it was, inactive; he would have to force it open before he could seal it properly. The mark flared to life as it made the connection to the rift and Trystane could almost see it eat at the edges of the fade, the Rift springing to life and demons pouring from the angry aperture in rolling green mist.

A rage demon and a few shades; the rage demons were quite dangerous, mounds of rolling flame with loosely shaped appendages that blindly sought to consume all in their path. Trystane cast a barrier over his companions and then he placed a wind charm over the demon, swirling gale-force winds pinning the demon down, allowing Dorian to place an ice glyph beneath the demon, freezing it solid as it was held in place over the frost enchantment. Trystane was glad that Dorian was so gifted with elemental magicks.

Bull, Varric and Blackwall made quick work of the few shades that dropped from the Rift, and Trystane sealed the Rift. He could feel the Veil becoming stronger.

“Hopefully there will be fewer corpses in this region, with this Rift closed,” Dorian mused.

“Blessed Lady, you truly do have the favor of a god,” The avvar said. “Go now with the Lady’s blessing.”

Trystane nodded to him, still cautious, but moving on; he wasn’t here to pick fights he didn’t need.

***

There were two more veilfire spires on their path to the shore where Hargrave Keep stood, and they made short work of them; they were developing a rhythm to fighting together as a group, disparate styles coming together to complement each others’ weaknesses. The only real resistance they encountered was a small band of Avvar raiders, two archers and three warriors wielding shortswords. They were fast and tough, and Blackwall suffered a gash to his upper arm before the fighting was done. Trystane had seen to it immediately, knowing that he risked an infection in a place like this, warm light surrounding his arm as he knit the flesh together. There was only the barest of lines where the wound had been, and that would heal quickly.

“Too bad it won’t scar; that’d be badass,” Iron Bull had said when Trystane was done with Blackwall’s arm. Trystane had chuckled and Blackwall had made a simple, if gruff, thank you. They continued on their way to the shore, carefully navigating a collapsed section of the walkway that led away from the final veilfire column before they reached the shore.

The extent of the ruins was impressive, the village surrounding the keep having fallen into complete collapse. Little remained but isolated stone supports and columns, none of the structures recognizable for their original shape. There was a broad passage through the skeleton of the dead town, what must have once been the main road to the keep. Hargrave Keep loomed over it all, ominous in the shadow of the overcast night sky, only slivers of moonlights in the exposed sky falling over the shell of what may have once been an impressive castle.

Now only the outer wall stood, its portcullis drawn open and the gate still in surprisingly good condition. Beyond that they could see the top of the keep extend above the tops of the hills into which it was set.

And before they could reach the gate, a veritable swarm of undead blocked their path. About fifty yards away there were perhaps thirty or more, standing idly and shuffling about the ruined landscape, having not noticed the living standing at the entry to the main road.

“Crap,” Bull practically hissed. “We can’t fight ‘em all, Boss.”

“I know,” Trystane said. “But we can’t just make a beeline for the gate.”

“Whatever we do, we had better do it quickly,” Dorian said, alarm rising in his voice. “Here they come!”

Trystane gestured to his companions, getting all of their attention. “Get in close to me. I’m putting a wind charm around us. Make sure you keep inside it, it’ll hurt like a bastard if you touch it.” They did as instructed, huddling together as Trystane picked up a discarded leaf from the ground, suspending it in the air above his cupped hands and blowing on it gently. It began to spin rapidly in place, just as during his meditations, and the wind picked up around them into a great swirling vortex, probably ten feet in diameter. Trystane strained under the effort of keeping it going strongly at such a wide radius, but he had enough experience with such charms that he felt confident he could keep it up. They started for the gate, a rather comical sight as they shuffled together in a rather close-knit circle. Iron Bull and Blackwall, on the furthest edges of the group, moved with extra care not to brush against the walls of the tempestuous wind.

Corpses wasted no time in approaching them, reaching the walls of the wind barrier in shuffling strides. The first to find them lunged without any care for the roaring winds surrounding them; the swirling current ripped its rotting arm from its socket and violently flung it wide; the corpse paid it no mind and again flung itself at the charm, the winds practically ripping its body to shreds.

“Your magic is fucking gross, Boss,” Bull said as he saw another corpse eviscerated as they made their way to the gate.

It was a tense couple of minutes but they gradually arrived at the portcullis of the gate. Trystane released the wind charm in a violent outward gust of wind, knocking the few corpses left onto their backs several yards away. There were a few Avvar just inside the gate and the wind knocked them back as well, giving the Inquisition fighters time to press the advantage. Trystane threw a barrier over them just in time as an arrow found Bull’s shoulder; the barrier rebuffed the arrow and it fell dumbly against the Qunari’s shoulder. Varric’s crossbow, Bianca, found the archer on scaffolding above them, a bolt striking into the man’s chest and sending him over the edge. He tumbled to the ground with a sickening wet thud. Trystane drew his spear but Bull stepped in his way.

“Leave these assholes to us Boss,” he said. “Save your strength for the Hand.” Trystane nodded, sticking close to the Bull as he and the others tore through the handful of Avvar that blocked their way. The outer ramparts were cleared quickly in a flurry of blade, magic and crossbow bolts.

The wasted no time on their way to the ruins of the Keep; every minute spent was a minute in which the Hand of Korth might grow weary of waiting on the Inquisition and decide to vent his violent impulses on their scouts. There was no talking as they moved up a path to a broad stone courtyard at the foot of the stairs leading into the Keep. There were a few Avvars there, practically unarmed save fur coats and wielding only hatchets. They were agile, but easily dispatched fom a distance by Varric and Dorian.

The keep was all but collapsed, only the walls standing. The roof and the upper levels had all collapsed, and only the low-ceilinged wings that flanked the great hall remained sheltered from the elements. Trystane ascended the stone steps and through the gaping entryway. The Hand of Korth stood at the far end, up yet more steps in the center of what must have once been a throne room. He was flanked by archers, and two more warriors waited for them at the bottom of the steps.

“Herald of Andraste!” he saw the darkened figure of the Avvar Hand lift a war-hammer high. “Come, test yourself against the Hand of Korth!” Trystane nodded to his companions, letting Dorian handle casting the barrier over the others. Trystane flooded his own body with an altered healing magic, fueling his tired muscles and feeling a rush of adrenaline come over him. He fade-stepped past the waiting warriors, stopping a few yards from the Hand. To his left, a crossbow bolt found its way to the throat of one archer and on his right the second archer was felled by an arc of lightning; they fell to the ground, twitching.

The Hand rushed him like a bull, devoid of any trace of form or grace; Trystane side-stepped him easily, twisting around the bear of a man and stabbing deep into the man’s thigh. He could have finished the fight there, but he watched as the Hand howled in pain, whipping his war-hammer round. Trystane ducked under it, bringing the weighted end of the spear crashing into the man’s abdomen. The Hand stumbled back, cursing and bringing the hammer back around, a diagonal swipe and Trystane hopped back, bringing the spear arcing around and slashing across the  man’s arm. The courtyard was silent except their fight, the other Avvar having been dispatched by his companions, and the other Inquisition fighters watching silently.

Another pained howl was wrenched from the Avvar’s lips and he dropped the hammer; another slash of the spear rent the flesh behind his left knee and he staggered, his left leg failing him and he dropped to kneeling. The Herald was relentless, righteous fury in his eyes as he circled the Hand like a bird of prey, slashing first his arms, his legs, his chest and back, to agonized screams from the once-proud warlord. Trystane brought the blunt end of the spear around against the Hand’s temples with a vicious crack and the man slumped over onto his back. Trystane stepped away from the simpering barbarian, blood streaming from vicious wounds all over his body and from a crater in his temple.

“Aren’t you going to finish him, boss?” The Iron Bull said gruffly.

Trystane hesitated. For a moment, all he saw was red and he wanted to let the man suffer, to let him die slowly. “He’s dead anyway,” he said slowly.

“You’ve already killed him. There’s no reason to make it slow,” Varric said as he approached the Herald. “You’re better than that.”

Trystane stepped wordlessly to the Avvar, prone on the ground and groaning under the intense pain, and unceremoniously  impaled the spear into the Hand’s chest. He watched the corpse as it twitched for a moment longer, and was finally still. He realized, on the edge of his awareness, that it was raining. Blackwall had freed the Inquisition scouts from a nearby room and they stood to the side of the ruined hall, watching him in awe. All was quiet and he drew the spear from the body, wiping the blade on the Avvar’s fur.He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pulling it out of its ponytail and it fell in wet strands over his face.

“I told you the Herald would come for us,” he heard one of the scouts  in a hushed tone to another one. He turned to them, happy at least that they were alive.

“Are you all alright?” he asked. “Are you injured?”

“We’re mostly alright,” their captain said. “We can tend to what injuries we do have and make our way to camp on our own.

“No, we’ll see you safely to the forward camp,” he said. “Didn’t come all this way just to leave you here, alone. Who’s hurt?”

There was only one injury worth tending to immediately, a fractured clavicle on a man who had taken a hammer to his chest. He placed his hands against the scout’s chest, warm light blooming from his palm and the man sighed in relief as the swelling went down, bruises relieved and the break was set. Trystane pushed almost all of his remaining mana into the bone, cementing it together and soothing the bruised muscle.

“Thank you, Lord Herald,” the man breathed in relief. Trystane put a hand to his other shoulder, looking him in the eye.

“I’m glad you’re all alright,” he said.

“Boss, you have a visitor,” he heard Bull call from behind him.

He turned to see the Avvar shaman from before coming in through the collapsed doorway of the keep. He set his hammer on the ground a few paces away. “Your god looks after you, Herald of Andraste. Korth, our chief, would duel you for the loss if he cared. But seeing you mend the wounds in the Lady’s skin, I believe this is what she brought me here for you. I want to join your Inquisition.”

“You dealt with us honestly and honorably before,” Trystane said. “Come to Haven – we can fulfill the purpose your chief lacks.”

The avvar nodded, placing a fist over his chest. “I will settle things with my people, Herald, and then find where you set yer flag.” Then the Avvar shaman was gone.

“You’re crazy, Silver,” Varric sighed, then chuckled. “But we did good work here. You okay?”

“Yeah, Cards,” he said. “Just got a little overwhelmed there. Let’s get out of this hell hole.”

***

Cullen had hurriedly made his way to the gate to Haven when they heard the trumpeter announce someone’s arrival. Even if it was the middle of the night, he was eager to see Trevelyan return safely. It was only natural to be concerned, he told himself. Percival had been the same way, anxious for his brother to return and had also found his way to the gate at the trumpet’s call.

“Evenin’, Commander,” Percy said to him when he arrived to find the blonde already at the gate, watching the approaching riders. “Here to see my idiot brother?”

Cullen chuckled. The way the Trevelyan’s teased each other always made him think about his siblings. He nodded. “I just wanted to make sure the Herald made it back safely,” he said.

“You’ve no reason to explain yerself to me, Commander,” Percy said. “I can see plain as day how you feel for ‘im.” There was no response, Cullen staring at the ground. “He wouldn’t reject ye, y’know.” Percy continued gently.

“I already rejected him,” Cullen said softly. “Besides, he deserves much better than a washed-up old templar like me.”

“Come now Cullen,” Percival nudged him with his shoulder. “I think he ought to be decidin’ that for himself. He might surprise you,” he says.

“He never fails to surprise me,” Cullen chuckles. The riders have dismounted, stable hands taking their horses to be fed and tended to. In the next moment Percival was bounding away, jogging excitedly to his brother, practically tackling him.

Trystane shoved him off, and Percy scrunched up his nose. “You all smell somethin’ foul,” he said as he backed off. “I’m happy I stayed in Haven all of a sudden.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Dorian snapped.

“I bet you were a _delight_ out there in the bog, Ser Magister,” Percival smirked and Trystane chuckled as Dorian launched, again, into a lengthy explanation of how he was not a magister. “Whatever you say, your Magistership,” Percival dismissed his protests.

“Cullen!” he heard Trystane say excitedly as he caught sight of the commander approaching. Cullen smiled to hear it.

“I’m glad to see you’ve returned, Trystane. Are the scouts…?” he asked tentatively.

“They’re a little worse for wear, but safe,” Trystane said and Cullen was visibly relieved, tension falling from his shoulders.

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s good we didn’t send you to fight an Avvar warlord for nothing,” he said. “And I’m glad you’re safe,” he said with a slight flush.

“Safe, and exhausted,” Trystane sighed. “And in desperate need of a bath.”

“Oh- of course, I shouldn’t keep you,” Cullen said. The others had already passed them by including Percival, satisfied to see his brother safe and ready to go back to sleep.

“No, I’m fine, Cullen,” Trystane said. He was close, and Cullen could see he really had been through the proverbial wringer – his clothes were dirty and still damp, only having dried slightly in the ride back. There was blood dried on his tunic and a little on his neck and cheek where he had wiped at it earlier, failing to get completely clean. “I’m just – Maker, I’m sure I really do smell awful,” he said and took a step back. He blushed slightly.

“Herald,” Cullen began. “Trystane,” he corrected himself with a chuckle. “Before you go. That was really brave of you. Thank you. Those soldiers are alive because of you.”

“It’s nothing, Cullen. Anything for yo-“ he cut himself short at that last word, suddenly breaking eye contact. “I really am exhausted, sorry Cullen, excuse me.”

“Sure, Trevelyan,” Cullen said. He watched Trystane walk up the path into Haven. What had he been saying?

_Anything for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are always welcome! Thank you all for your encouragement, it's really been lovely!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane deals with, or rather, avoids, his feelings for Cullen. Meanwhile, everyone in Haven is determined to play Matchmaker, and Trystane prepares to leave for Therinfal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yes I did have the sudden desire to write a second chapter today. I would say I hope this isn't spoiling y'all but I won't assume a chapter that I wrote in a couple hours is any good.

Trystane slept through the night, longer than he had in years. He woke to the eighth bell, a full four hours longer than he might normally have slept. It didn’t help that he had been up for a while after parting ways with Cullen, his thoughts on the Commander in a way that he knew wasn’t right.

                This was becoming a problem. Cullen had made it clear that he wanted no more than friendship between them, and yet Trystane felt that there were situations daily where the air between them was charged in a way that it shouldn’t be. He felt himself being drawn magnetically to the man and he knew it wasn’t fair to Cullen. He felt as if he were doing something dirty, pining after the man after telling him he understood his advances were unwelcome. And yet he selfishly wanted to allow it to continue, wanted to keep those furtive glances and occasional moments between them.

                _I can’t_ , he told himself as he shook himself into wakefulness and threw himself into his routine. He knew he had to try to put some distance between them; this attempt at being the Commander’s friend without being pulled into feeling more was like a fight where he had no control. He needed to distance himself if he had any chance of not ruining their friendship entirely.

                It was with a knot twisting uncomfortably in his throat that he nodded to himself, affirming that this was indeed the best course of action. Best to stop going for drinks with the Commander, best to just do his job and get on with it. He almost convinced himself he could do it, and dressed for the day, washing his face and combing his hair, tying it back into a bun so it wouldn’t get in the way of his work. Unlike most mornings, he made it a point not to go visit Cullen on the training field.

                Adan, of course, harped at him for being so late, but couldn’t be too harsh with Trevelyan; he had taken on enough and, while the Apothecary was too gruff to ever voice it, he was very grateful that the Herald took the time out of his day to help him keep potions stocked.

                At the tenth bell Trystane went to the sick ward in order to check on the injured there, but Mother Giselle shooed him away, saying in her gentle yet steely way that he should take the day to rest. That really only left his personal drills, as well as practice with his squad left for the day. Maybe if he began while Cullen was busy, he could get started without getting too close to him.

                He couldn’t believe he had said what he’d said last night. _Anything for you_. Cullen wasn’t a fool, he would read into that for what it meant. His stomach lurched as he made his way out of the Chantry and past the Nightingale’s intelligence tent, where she managed her network of agents and spies.

                “Lord Herald, if I may,” a runner approached from the tent. He stopped, unintentionally giving the woman an irate glare.

                “What is it?” he asked and the runner paled just a little bit; the Herald never understood just how intimidating he was. Now that he was dubbed the Herald of Andraste, what was once mere intimidation became nigh unapproachability. His face softened as he saw her blanche slightly. “Sorry, having a rough day. What did you need?”

                The runner swallowed her nerves and handed him a slip of paper. “Nightingale said to tell you that there’s a meeting scheduled for the twelfth bell. That’s all, My Lord.” With that she turned on her heel and fled to the tent.

                Unfolding the scrap, he found a scrawled note in a hurried hand.

_Lord Herald_

_My brother was among the scouts you rescued._

_I thank you from the bottom of my heart_.

                Trystane’s mood was instantly brightened, a grin stretching across his face as he looked to the tent where the runner stood next to a friend of hers, watching apprehensively. Seeing the smile on his face, her expression lit up before she resumed her duties. Perhaps this day is worth something after all, he thought. He pocketed the note and continued on his way towards the training grounds. His grin lasted all the way until he caught sight of Cullen, fading quickly and replaced with the knot in his throat.

***

Cullen was restless today, and he knew it was apparent. He also knew why; Trystane hadn’t come by the training field at all today, and it was past the tenth bell. It wasn’t like him to start his day without coming to the field for his stretches and a quick workout.

_Or rather, it’s unlike him to start the day without stopping to see me_ , Cullen was surprised at the tinge of something – jealousy? – in his thoughts. He had run his troops through the morning drills, directing his restless energy into putting them through the paces, correcting a stance there, a shield bash there, the occasional tip on a proper counterstrike.

He silently reprimanded himself for the way he was acting, without any real effort to calm himself. _Maker, get ahold of yourself_ , he chided.

Trystane finally came down through the front gate and Cullen tried to repress the way his chest reacted. The Herald really was enchanting to look at, silver hair catching the sun, a loose strand falling against the creamy white of his cheek, the masculine angle of his jaw and the edge of chest just visible in the deep neckline of his tunic. Cullen couldn’t help staring as Trystane approached the field, noting the vague blush on his cheeks when he caught the Commander staring. A lieutenant was saying something on the periphery of his awareness.

“Sorry, what?” he snapped back into focus to see Dunlain handing him a missive. He tried not to glare at Dunlain, he had really been trying not to treat the man any different, but he couldn’t suppress a slight grimace whenever he saw the man. He thought about the lieutenant’s hands on Trystane, stubble grazing the Herald’s skin… he took the missive and dismissed the man before his face could betray him.

It was a request for another squad in the Hinterlands; it was no issue, they had the luxury of a surplus of soldiers to meet their needs for now. He moved over to his desk, setting the missive down and signing it.

When he retook his position at the head of the grounds he saw that Trystane had moved to the space that had since been set up for him to train in private, a tent a little offset from the rest of the training grounds with a practice dummy and a swath of canvas fabric  staked into the ground where he could stretch and stay out of the dirt and grime. He was on the ground now in a horizontal split; Cullen’s groin always hurt a little in sympathetic pain when he saw the man stretch like that. Not to mention certain other thoughts that rose unbidden to his consciousness –

_Maker, stop_ , Cullen cut himself off from that dangerous line of thinking.  He found himself pacing over to the Herald’s space, leaning against the practice dummy as Trystane was bent over double, grabbing his left ankle to deepen the split.

“Maker, have I ever mentioned how painful that looks?” he said and Trystane’s gaze snapped up to him. For a flicker of a moment he could have sworn the man looked panicked.

“It’s no’ like I jump straight into a split,” he said and leaned back to the other side, hair falling over his face. It tended fall out of the bun he usually wore when he trained. “Takes time and practice, this does.”

“And I suppose doing it in full view of all my men is an added plus,” Cullen muttered, looking away as he realized he had been staring.

“What d’you mean by that?” Trystane quipped at him, suddenly irritated. Cullen looked back to see Trystane glaring at him. “Is that about me an’ Dunlain? I told you-”

“I’m sorry, Trystane, that came out wrong,” Cullen backpedaled, scratching the back of his neck nervously. He really had just come off like a jealous arse. “I wasn’t thinking,” he sighed.

“Well-” Trystane stopped when he saw Cullen’s deep flush. “Anyway,” he said. “Did you need somethin’?”

“Oh, I didn’t need anything, I just noticed you didn’t come by today. I never got to tell you properly how much I appreciate what you did in the mire.”

Trystane was quiet a moment, and then he pulled his legs in to where he was sitting cross-legged, fishing something out of his pocket. He handed it to the Commander, saying “I didn’t realize what a big deal it would be to the people here. Makes me really feel like I’m helpin’.”

Cullen unfolded the note, smiling fondly at the message there before giving it back to the Herald. “You really are making a difference, Trevelyan. You know, I never got to make good on my offer to buy you drinks.”

“I, uh,” Trystane cleared his throat. He was acting suspiciously nervous. “No’ tonight, Cullen, but thank you.”

“Alright,” Cullen felt a little deflated. He couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. “Are you okay, Trystane? Did something happen in the mire?”

“I’m fine,” Trystane almost snapped. He hopped to his feet, grabbing his spear and brushing past the Commander. “I’ve got to round up my recruits. Commander.”

Cullen’s gut wrenched as he saw Trystane gesture to his squad where they themselves had been warming up – the Herald had insisted they adopt many of the same training principles that he kept – but decided that whatever was eating at the Herald, he’d tell him eventually.

He decided to return to his duties, almost as anxious as he had been before Trystane came down. It wouldn’t do to think too much on that, he thought. For now, he had to focus. Two hours passed in relative normality until a runner informed him that Leliana and Josephine were calling a meeting in the war room at noon. Trystane had gone ahead of him – another sign that something was off.

As he made his way towards the front gate he was stopped by Bull’s impossible deep voice to his right. “What did you do, Cullen?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” Cullen defended himself on reflex, stopping and looking at the Qunari. “What are you even talking about?”

“Oh come on, Cullen, if you were paying even a little bit of attention you’d see that Trevelyan’s avoided you all day,” Bull retorted. Damn his unusually keen perception.

“I truly have no idea why, if that’s the case,” Cullen growled.

“Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s not _doing_ anything, eh, Chief?” Crem said from beside him, nudging Bull’s side with a mischievous grin.

“Crem’s got a point,” Iron Bull chuckled. “And I’ve got a bet to win. Go get him, Lion,” he smirked at how Cullen flushed and retreated towards the chantry.

“Incorrigible…” Cullen muttered to himself as he walked with as much speed as possible to the Chantry doors, flinging them open and-

There was a resounding smack and the thud of a body falling and Cullen stepped into the Chantry vestibule to the sight of Trystane groaning on the floor.

“What the _fuck_ ye damn weapon…” he groaned and Cullen scrambled to help him to his feet. Trystane was holding his face where evidently the door had collided with him. “Got somethin’ against the bloody Chantry doors?”

“Trystane!” Cullen flushed a deep, deep red. “I am so sorry, I was just late for a meeting…”

“I know, Leliana sent me to get you,” Trystane turned on his heel and marched off towards the war room. “Are you comin’ or no’?” he demanded and Cullen obediently followed the quiet string of swears ahead of him. Evidently the Herald’s Ostwicker accent became much more pronounced when angry; Cullen filed that into his ever-growing miscellaneous observations about the man.

***

Trystane shuffled his feet where he stood awkwardly next to Cassandra, a good distance from where he normally stood by Cullen. He was fully aware of the look that everyone in the room had given him when he had taken position on the opposite side of the table, and was determined to ignore it. There was a long pause before Josephine broke the silence.

“We have gathered enough favor among the nobles for our meeting with the Lord Seeker – a raven arrived earlier today saying that he is willing to meet with our “esteemed allies”, but only if the Herald is there as chief negotiator,” she frowned. “It is rather a reversal of his position on you from your encounter in Val Royaux.”

“Is this another trap?” Cassandra asked. Leliana nodded.

“My reports have been… vague, and inconsistent. But we cannot ignore the possibility of this Elder One from Redcliffe moving on the templars just as he did the mages.”

“However, it is impossible to meet with the Lord Seeker without sending the Herald to Therinfal, and into a likely trap, again. Am I correct?” Cullen asked. Josephine nodded and Cullen turned a concerned gaze on Trystane.

“We need the templars,” Trystane said when Cullen opened his mouth to talk. “I was already plannin’ on going,” he sighs. Cullen frowned, studying the silver-haired man’s expression.

“I’m sorry not to give you more time to rest, My Lord,” Josephine said, “But you will need to leave in the morning. That is when the caravan of our noble allies will be coming through Haven, and it is in our best interest if you make your way to Therinfal as quickly as possible.”

“I’m fine. I’m rested. Can I take some backup?” Trystane sounded almost impatient.

“Of course, we will not send you into hostile territory defenseless,” Leliana said. “Who will go with you?”

“I am going,” Cassandra announced in a tone that left no room for debate.

“Well then, in addition to Cassandra, I’d like to bring Percival, Varric and Vivienne,” Trystane said. “And I want to let you know – if I get the opportunity, I’m offering the templars an alliance.” Josephine and Leliana immediately began to speak up, but Trystane interrupted them. “We have to offer them the same level of trust we extended to the mages. If we offer them more or less, then we’re making a tacit statement about our stance on the rebellion.”

“That is… a surprisingly astute observation,” Josephine said. “From that perspective, I have no objections.” Leliana nodded her consent, and Cullen seemed pleased.

“Is that all?” Trystane asked.

“Yes Herald, the rest of our agenda is routine operations,” Leliana said, and Trystane nodded to them all before turning and leaving. She looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes narrowed and she turned to Cullen. “What did you do, Cullen?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?” Cullen’s reply was exasperated. “I didn’t do anything?”

“I don’t believe you,” Leliana said in a low tone. “And I _will_ find out.”

Cullen blanched, but defended himself anyway. “He’s been acting like that all day. Bull said he’s avoiding me, though Maker knows why,” he pinched the bridge of his nose at the onslaught of a sudden headache.

“If anyone can get him to talk, it is either you or his fool brother,” Cassandra interjected.

“Somehow, I think Percival will have better luck,” Cullen responded sullenly. “But let’s wrap this up, shall we?”

***

A knock at the door startled Trystane, nearly making him spill hot water on himself as he poured it over his tea. It came again soon after, impatient. Trystane set the kettle down, debating whether to get the door or not.

“I know yer in there Trys, open the door or I’m openin’ it meself,” his brother called.

“Fine you reprobate I’m comin!” he shouted as he paced over to the door, flung it open and moved back to finish making his tea.

Percival shut the door behind him, taking a seat on Trystane’s chair in front of the fire. The younger Trevelyan scowled at him.

“You sure are bad at bein’ casual about Cullen,” Percival said. “If I were you I’d just get it over with already and bed the man, is no’ like you two are bein’ exactly subtle about it.”

“That’s not funny Percy,” Trystane said. “He’s not like that. He never will be. And I’ve made enough of a fool out of myself.”

“No, you’re makin’ a fool of yourself righ’ now,” Percival scoffed. “You’re twenty-five now brother, you’re a li’l old for this nonsense.”

Trystane didn’t respond immediately, instead drinking his tea with a scowl. Percival stared him down.

“If it’s so evident that he feels the same way then perhaps you ought to go bark a’ him,” Trystane said finally.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ child,” Percival said. “An’ by the way, I’ve tried. You two truly deserve each other, daft as ye are.”

“Don’ start with me about bein’ daft,” Trystane made a face at Percival, earning him a wry chuckle. “I’m just tryin’ to respect his own damn wishes,” he continued. “He said he jus’ wants to be friends. If I get too close… I feel like I’m lyin’ to him. It’s better this way.”

“Now you stop torturin’ yourself with that,” Percival sighed. “But maybe it’s better after all if he makes the first move. Canno’ believe you two are actin’ like courtin tweens,” he got up with another heavy groan and made for the door. Trystane continued to scowl into his tea.

***

Trystane found himself with his last bastion against drama, Solas. He had decided to spend some time with the elf because, while he enjoyed their discussions, they really hadn’t spoken much recently. It helped that he felt Solas wouldn’t try to speculate on his _non_ -relationship with Cullen.

“Herald,” Solas said politely when Trystane found him in his usual spot. The elf stood, leaned back casually against a shade tree, book in hand as usual. The tree was situated in a corner of the square where the apothecary was, bordered on one side by the wall of a cabin, on the opposite by a low cobblestone fence that protected people from the small ledge beyond it.

“Hello there Solas,” he replied.

“I am surprised to find you not on the training grounds,” Solas noted. “How goes your training with your recruits?”

“ ‘ave had enough trainin’ for today,” Trystane sighed as he sat with his back to the low cobblestone wall. “And people are drivin’ me crazy. I don’t need folks stirrin’ up drama the night before I make for Therinfal.”

“So I’ve heard,” Solas said wrily. At the look Trystane gave him, he raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “It’s a small village. Dorian was talking to your brother earlier on the topic of, as he said, ‘those hopeless lovestruck morons’. It was interesting, to say the least.”

“My, Solas, I never would ‘ave taken you to be a gossip,” Trystane grumbled and rested his head back against the cobblestone.

“Collecting secrets is something of a hobby of mine,” Solas said with a dry laugh. “Although they are usually the variety that are lost in memories of the Fade, and have less to do with the love lives of my compatriots.”

“Don’ listen to those fools,” Trystane said. “There’s no love life to be gossipin’ on. People just spreadin rumors.”

“If you say so; did you want something?” Solas asked.

“Actually, I had come here to get away from that very topic,” Trystane sighed. “Humor me, Solas. Tell me about something you saw in the Fade.”

“Very well. Once in the land of dreams I met a spirit who lived near a small village. It would visit the boys and girls of the village in their dreams, and it would steer sweet girls into the arms of gentle boys who would value them. I called this spirit the Matchmaker.”

“Why am I sensin’ a theme to this one,” Solas smirked at Trystane’s observation.

“If there was nothing to sense, perhaps the story would have been innocuous. You gave it meaning on your own,” Solas said. “It is a true story, though. It’s just fitting. That village never knew its luck.”

“Maker preserve me,” Trystane growled to himself, then he stood and dusted the snow and dirt from his trousers.

“I’ve already lost the bet, by the way.” Solas’ nonchalant remark was met by the sound of the Herald’s jaw hitting the ground.

“You _bet_ on that rubbish? I expected more from you,” Trystane despaired at Solas’ laughter. He fled the elven apostate before this could get any more embarrassing.

***

After blowing off steam at the training ground, truly punishing the poor practice dummy that had been placed in his little corner of the grounds, the Herald found himself tucked into a corner of the Herald’s Rest, picking at a mix of roasted vegetables and fish, sipping on mulled wine; Flissa had started to serve the drink more commonly in the tavern, evidently oweing to the Herald’s influence. She had informed him that since he had begun requesting it of her, more and more patrons had curiously tried the sweet concoction and it had become a local favorite. It was no surprise in the permanent frost of the foothills where Haven was situated.

He was trying his best, and succeeding, to look unapproachable. He had brought a stack of notes from Leliana and Josephine, notes on the templar situation and history, and on the noble houses that were rallying with them. He pored over them with irate focus as he sipped his wine and picked at his food; neither of them were warm any more.

“My Lord, can I get you more wine? Is something the matter with your food?” Flissa asked nervously from where she had appeared next to his table.

“No, it’s excellent lass I’m just a tad occupied,” Trystane said with a forced smile. Flissa nodded and darted away, and Trystane made a point to shovel some veggies into his mouth so that it would be noticeably eaten.

He continued his reading for another half hour, making it through perhaps six or seven entries before he felt weight settle on the opposite side of his table.

“I thought you didn’t want to get drinks?” Cullen said with a frown, arms crossed. Trystane’s heart sank in his chest, feeling caught in a lie.

“Well at the time, sure, then everyone went and lost their damn minds. Sorry if I offended you, Commander.”

“Are we back to our titles, Herald?” Cullen grumbled.

“Sorry, Cullen,” Trystane sighed. “I’m tired.”

“As hard as you fought against that mannequin, I’m not surprised. You could have asked me if you needed to spar.”

“You’ve got duties to attend, I can’t just pull you away whenever I feel like a fight,” Trystane set the parchment in his hand down and fixed his attention on the last of his salmon; there was no way he was going to concentrate on reading while being interrogated like this.

“You know that isn’t entirely true,” Cullen retorted. Trystane looked up, about to snap at him, and wished he hadn’t met his gaze. He found it to be surprisingly gentle where he’d expected anger.

_That’s not fucking fair_ , he hissed in his thoughts.

He downed the rest of his wine and set the mug aside. Cullen glanced at the documents spread out in front of the Herald, one of which was a layout of Therinfal. “Leliana’s got you studying, I see,” he noted.

“Anythin’ that’ll give me an edge so I can be… prepared, at Therinfal,” he nodded, looking at the thoroughly unruly mess of parchments and leaflets.

“You’re ready,” Cullen’s voice colored with the slight exertion of stretching over the table as he scopped up the parchments and rolled them into a bundle. “This is just going to stress you out.” Trystane could already feel his head swimming a little less as the clutter was removed.

_Still not fucking fair_ , another petulant thought.

“Look Cullen, I’ve been an arse to you today, and I’m sorry,” he said, his gaze fixated on his plate and not moving an inch. He wasn’t strong enough to keep pushing Cullen away when the man insisted on being so damn considerate.

“It’s nothing,” Cullen answered too quickly, like he was relieved. “I’m sure you’re stressed. Under other circumstances, I would come with you to Therinfal…”

“No, this is probably best,” Trystane sighed. “Whatever is goin’ on with the templars, there’s no reason to throw you into the middle.”

Cullen cast his eyes down to the table and Trystane couldn’t read his expression. Whatever the blonde was thinking about, he was obviously pained. Without thinking Trystane reached across the table, settling his hand over Cullen’s clenched fist.

“I’m getting’ the templars, Cullen,” Trystane was determined. “It’s going to be alright.” Cullen looked up at him, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and Trystane retracted his hand as he felt Cullen’s shift underneath it.

“Thanks, Trevelyan,” Cullen said.

“It’s nothing,” came the immediate response. “I… had better get some rest. Busy day tomorrow.”

“I might not get a chance to see you off in the morning,” Cullen interjected. “So, in case. Be careful out there, Trystane.”

“I…” Trystane felt himself being pulled into a warm amber gaze. “I’ll be okay, Cullen,” he stood stiffly and set some coin on the table before making a hasty escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very much appreciated! This chapter's a little fluffier than I really anticipated but there's some development that needs to happen before certain impending events. Next up is Therinfal, and I think it's pretty likely that that will take up two chapters. Depending on how productive I feel I'll write either one or both halves of it tomorrow.
> 
> On a sort of unrelated note, the doc that I'm writing this in is 100 pages long now, which sorta blows my mind? It's almost twice as long as my failed Fallout 4 fic. Thank y'all so much for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and company move on Therinfal Redoubt, sanctuary of the rebel templars, to meet with the Lord Seeker Lucius. As the situation spirals out of control in ways that all too eerily echo what he saw in Redcliffe, Trystane must try to regain control of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/2 of the Therinfal Redoubt events. This chapter is short-ish but it was the best way I saw to break up the content.

Trystane met Cassandra, Percival, Vivienne and Varric by the gate just after the second morning bell. The caravan containing the nobles who had rallied to their cause had stopped to resupply late last night, and without stopping to rest they were to continue on their way to Therinfal. Josephine had even risen this early so that she could briefly greet their new allies and make introductions. She had also insisted that, despite the fact that they would be traveling for three days, Trystane and his companions should be dressed well and make a good first impression on the nobles.

The Herald had begrudgingly agreed, and so he had dressed in a silver tunic, interspersed with black metallic thread, over a black under-shirt and with grey linen trousers embroidered with an Orlesian motif in more black metallic yarn. His tunic was belted in his wine-red samite sash. The Ostwicker noble had even taken the time to braid his hair, with the braid resting over his shoulder and a silver hair-broach pinned to the end of it.

To his dismay, Cassandra arrived in her usual Seeker habit and Varric was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, his tunic mostly unbutton to reveal his surprisingly muscular chest, a tuft of red chest hair just visible. Vivienne at least had dressed well, which was hardly surprised. The most amusing thing of all was Percival arriving last to the gate, chased by an irate Dorian who was gripping an ivory cotton wasit-coat and brandishing it at the Trevelyan like a weapon.

“I cannot believe you are the son of a Teyrn, the way you dress,” Dorian hissed as he caught to up Percy. Dorian eyes Trystane for a moment, giving him a once over and a “that’ll do,” before turning back to Percy. “You expect to go before a host of your peers in just a tunic and breeches?”

Percival gestured to Varric in triumph. “I’m no’ the only one you nag,”

At that, Varric received quite the evil eye from the Tevinter mage, who then thrust the waist coat into Trystane’s arms. “Make your brother behave,” Dorian was exasperated. “As much as I detest my fellow nobles, for the purpose of this mission you have to play pretend that you two are real nobility.” Before anyone could respond he huffed dramatically, turning on a heel and storming back to his cabin.

“Might I ask why our resident Tevinter is dressing you, dear?” Vivienne asked with a neutral expression, save the playful spark in her eye.

Percival shrugged. “Was no’ my idea, he woke up while I was gettin’ ready,”

At that Trystane coughed violently, choking on air, before regaining his composure. “And why were you in his cabin?” he asked.

“Was no’ in his cabin, he was in my tent,” Percival said indignantly. “And not everyone ‘round here courts like a shy tween,” this was punctuated by a sharp _ow_ as Trystane punched his arm, harder than intended.

“Shut up you big oaf I don’ want to hear it,” he growled. He saw from the corner of his eye Varric trying to hide his laughter while Cassandra and Vivienne were clearly unamused.

“Quite…” Vivienne sighed, but a quirk of the corner of her lips ultimately betrayed her composure. Knowing how impressive hers was, she must have found the entire thing to be quite hilarious.

Finally an agent notified them that the caravan was ready to depart and they were led to a carriage bearing the inquisition insignia; Josephine had spent a pretty copper in order to ensure theirs was on par with those of their noble guests.

“I honestly figured we would be on horseback,” Trystane grumbled and Cassandra echoed his disgruntled sentiment.

“My dear, this is a matter of alliance and strategy, which is much less feasible on horseback,” Vivienne noted. The began to climb into the carriage, Trystane last, before they heard a booming Orlesian voice.

“The Herald of Andraste!” the exclamation came from an Orlesian mask in a moustached mask and a silk puff-sleeved chemise. “Honored to meet you, and participate. I am Lord Abernache. It is not unlike the Second Dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales.” This man was all façade and no substance, Trystane surmised quickly, but it was important to impress him; from last night’s reading he had understood that Abernache was among the most prestigioius of their new allies. Trystane masked his face in the picture of delight.

“The honor is mine, My Lord,” he bowed graciously.

“Ah, Lady Vivienne!” the man called into the open cab. “We met at last summer’s ball; the Duc introduced us.”

“Of course, I could not possible forget the occasion,” Vivienne was almost believable, even to Trystane, and Abernache seemed pleased.

“Care to mark the occasion? Ten Orlesian house march with the Inquisition!” he announced as if performing a part. Trystane could imagine the man had scripted this to himself beforehand.

“Of course, My Lord,” Trystane said. “The Inquisition and the nobility of Orlais combined are a force to be reckoned with; the Templars will have to join the fold. We value this alliance highly.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Abernach nodded, then added with a smirk; “People will give you anything. Now, let’s get on our way so that this business may be concluded, shall we?”

“At once, Lord Abernache,” Trystane said with another small bow. Abernache reminded him of his uncle, one of the nobility in Starkhaven, a boisterous man who did little but drink and brag about his hunts as a young man. Abernache finally left, and Trystane was free to join the others in the Inquisition carriage.

“Pleasant man,” he grimaced as he took his seat, slamming the door shut. In a few moments, the carriage lurched forward, and they were on their way to Therinfal.

***

They made swift time to Therinfal, the drivers imposing a punishing pace of their horses and cutting down on their stops; they made it in two and a half days, coming upon the imposing templar fortress on an overcast afternoon. The nobles, soldiers and agents were glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs once the caravan came to a stop at the far end of a stone bridge. Therinfal was situated on a rocky outcrop, separated from the surrounding area by a river that had cut deep into the earth, creating something of a gorge that was only spanned at the bridge. While their agents and allies prepared, the Herald and his companions donned their armor over their clothes, Trystane slipping glittering Silverite chain mail with leather pauldrons, greaves and boots. Percival’s armor was heavier, similar to that of a chevalier but not quite so bulky; Vivienne donned her knight-enchanter robes, and Cassandra her Seeker mail. Varric didn’t change anything.

Trystane approached the end of the bridge, spear-staff in hand as he stared across it to the templars gathered at the other end, portcullis still closed.

“It appears as if they’re sending someone to greet you,” Abernache appeared at his side. “Present well; everyone is a little tense for my liking.” There was indeed a templar approaching from the far side of the bridge and Trystane did the same, meeting him halfway. He was conscious of the audience on both ends of the bridge.

“The Lord Seeker insists that he meets the Herald of Andraste ahead of this meeting,” the templar said in a gruff voice. “For now, your allies may come into the courtyard.” Trystane nodded.

“We are pleased to have the opportunity to meed the Lord Seeker,” he said. He turned and gestured for the group to cross the bridge, and the templar messenger left.

Cassandra and his companions caught up to him first. “I wonder why Lord Seeker would abandon the White Spire for… this? Surely he recognizes the true threat?”

“It is rather strange; one must assume he has an agenda that is served by a remote location,” Vivienne answered.

In the courtyard, they heard one of the Orlesian women in conversation with a templar guard:

“Do you see the sky, Ser Knight?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And are you not sworn to destroy heretical magic?” The noblewoman’s thick Orlesian accent was almost comical.

“Yes, we are, but-“

“So if you will not fulfill your duties, action against you shall be required!” The woman declared.

“Action against _us_?” The templar was now indignant.

“The Empress of Orlais, Ser Knight, listens to her court.” The only response was an exasperated sigh.

Trystane turned to Seeker as they passed. “Even if the Lord Seeker ignores the threat, it seems that his knights are at least still aware of their duty.”

“This is true,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps they can be persuaded to join us in the event the Lord Seeker is not cooperative. Trystane nodded his agreement.

On the far end of the courtyard another templar awaited them, mired in lengthy introductions with Lord Abernache; they overheard the knight being introduced as knight-templar Barris. When he spotted the Herald the templar brushed past Abernache, hastily moving to greet Trystane.

“I’m the one who sent word to Cullen,” Barris said. “He said the Inquisition fights to close the Breach. I didn’t expect you to bring such lofty company.”

“Barris…” Abernache interrupted. “Moderate holdings, your family. And the second son?” he scoffed. Barris grimaced, pointedly ignoring the Lord.

“This… promise of status has garnered the Lord Seeker’s attention beyond sense,” he intoned quietly enough so that only Trystane and his companions would hear. “The sky burns with magic, but he ignores all call to action until your friends arrive.”

“That… is troubling,” Trystane admitted. “Cassandra, should a Seeker lead the Order in this way?”

“If there were no other recourse,” Cassandra’s voice showed her confusion. “But his goal should be to restore the templars to order.”

“He has taken command,” Barris said flatly. “Permanently. He claims there is a holy mandate, and our leaders parrot him.” He then sighed, stepping in close to Trystane. “The Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense. He promised to restore our honor, then marched us here to… wait? A templar should know his duty, even when kept from it.”

“A templar who remembers his responsibilities? How reassuring,” Vivienne quipped.

“Win over the Lord Seeker and every able-bodied templar will help you seal the Breach,” Barris said.

Trystane narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Barris. He couldn’t figure out the reason for the gap in the templars’ intentions and their actions. “Somehow,” he replied drily, “I think the Lord Seeker will take some convinving.”

Barris shook his head sadly. “I wish I could reassure you. Lately the Lord Seeker sees no one but the officers. We have been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

“Why do I get a really shitty feeling about this…” Varric grumbled from the back of the group.

“Do not keep your betters waiting, Barris,” the irritated Lord Abernache interrupted again from Barris’ side. “There is important work for those born to it.” Trystane suppressed the urge to punch the Orlesian in the mouth, and Barris turned silently and paced away from them.

_There we go, Abernache has ruined everythin’,_ he thought.

“The Lord Seeker has q request,” Barris said with a gesture to a set of winches attached to three flag poles. “A rite of sorts – centered on the people, the Order, and the Maker. You are to use the wheels here to lift the flags in the order in which you value them.”

“And what if I fail?” Trystane asked.

“There is no wrong answer. It simply displays who you are, what you stand for, to the people gathered.” The templar drew close, again speaking low. “The Lord Seeker is inordinately fascinated with you, with your opinions. You will have to do this in order to see him.”

Trystane approached the winches warily, eyeing the flags before him. They were large, bold red standards with gold trim, each emblazoned with a different symbol. On the far left flag, the Sunburst of the Chantry. On the far right, the Flaming Sword of the Templar Order. In the center, the Lion of the people.

“Remember, my dear, this is a game. You must keep in mind your goals here,” Vivienne said quietly as she approached him from the side.

“I think I know what to do,” Trystane nodded. First he raised the flag of the Chantry; in his mind, if he is to be viewed as the Herald of Andraste then he must be seen as placing the Maker above all else. Second, the lion of the people, aligned with the goals of the Inquisition. Thirdly, the  Flaming Sword, placing the Templar Order on the bottom. There were scattered murmurs across the courtyard.

“Intriguing, darling,” Vivienne hummed. “You are wiser than you look.”

“Traditionally, now you are to explain your choices to those gathered,” Barris said.

“My choices reflect our goal in sealing the Breach; with the blessing of the Maker, for the People, and with the help of the Order.” Trystane gave his reasoning in a tone loud enough for the courtyard to hear. More than the Lord Seeker, he wanted to convince the templars here of his purpose, particularly given that their noble allies were doing their best to infuriate the templars at every turn.

“Very well,” Barris said. “I shall take you to the Lord Seeker.”

***

A half hour later, in a torch-lit antechamber, Abernache and Barris were locked in heated debate; Trystane paced in small circles, awaiting the Lord Seeker. He had had about enough of all this waiting. Finally, a door off the side of the room was flung open and another templar strode in, flanked by two more knights.

“Knight-Captain?” Barris called to him in confusion.

“You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” the man announced in a hostile tone. “I have come to die for you instead.”

Trystane was about to respond, extremely confused, but Abernache interrupted. He sidled up to the Knight-Captain. “Knight-Captain! Lord Esmerel Abernache. Honored. It is not unlike the Second Dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales,” he practically purred.

_Maker, what a prick_ , Trystane restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

The templar officer chuckled, bitter. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?” his gaze bored into Trystane’s, intense hostility hitting him in waves.

“Lord Abernache, it would be wise to step back,” Trystane said delicately.

“You’re a silver tongue; I won’t let you claim the Knight and his Captain both,” the Lord declared impetuously. Turning back to the templar; “Knight-Captain Denam?”

“The Lord Seeker had a plan, and the Herald has ruined it by arriving with purpose,” Denam said icily. In the distance, through the corridors on all sides, they heard what sounded like fighting, screaming. “It sowed too much dissent,” he hissed.

“Knight-Captain, I must know what’s happening,” Barris stepped closer to Denam, pleading.

“You were all supposed to be changed! Now we must purge the questioning knights,” Denam declared. Barris stepped back, realization mixing with horror in his expression.

“For once, I agree with B-“ Abernache began before an arrow landed viciously in his skull. Trystane drew his spear immediately, throwing a barrier over himself and his companions.

“The Elder One comes! No one leaves Therinfal unless they’re stained red,” the Knight-Captain drew his sword, more knights stormed the room, and the Herald sprung into action, fade-stepping in between two archers. He brought his spear around in two twisting slashes, cutting them both down before they could react, and a bolt from Varric’s crossbow felled a knight trying to flank him. He then advanced on Denam, who was locked in combat with Barris; he whipped the weight of his spear into the man’s temple from behind, sending him crumpled to the ground.

“Leave him,” he said to Barris when he moved in to strike. “We need information from him.”

Around them, his companions had made short work of the other templars. “He hardly deserves our mercy,” Vivienne spat. “I wonder why the Lord Seeker has done such an extreme thing?”

Trystane tipped the Knight-Captain onto his back, his helmet rolling off to reveal red pulsing veins underneath his skin, and the too-familiar sight of red lyrium beneath the skin. Trystane’s stomach lurched as memories came unbidden to his mind’s eye, the crystal’s under Cullen’s skin, protruding from his body, eating him from the inside out, the dagger to his friend’s throat-

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and his grip on his spear tightening. “Red lyrium,” he hissed. “The Elder one is changing them. Like he did to Cullen in the future, in Redcliffe.”

“What- what do you mean?” Barris said incredulously. “You mean red lyrium like in Kirkwall?”

“Shit, Silver, I had half hoped that shit you saw wasn’t real,” Varric sighed. “Red lyrium is bad news.”

“If the lyrium transforms them, then these are likely the least deformed of the transformed templars. We shall see what else this red lyrium does to them,” Vivienne said as she bent to examine the red lyrium in the veins of an archer’s eye.

“Whatever the reason, the Lord Seeker will pay,” Cassandra said.

Percival came up from Trystane’s side, settling an arm on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ve got to move quickly to save the other templars.” Trystane nodded, and motioned for Barris to lead them from the room.

They found the halls of the Redoubt filled with horror, the corpses of templars strewn about. Trystane was worried they were too late to save any of them when they came upon a large courtyard where several templars defended themselves against the Red Templars, and Trystane cast a barrier on them just in time to save one from a killing blow.

The Red Templars were truly monstrous, lyrium protruding from sores in the skin, roaring in pain and rage as they fought, tortured and mad by the crystals eating them from the inside out. They were powerful but clumsy, and the group quickly adapted to fighting them.

Fighting their way through twisting corridors, outhouses and courtyards, a stable, they managed to save quite a few templars from grim fates, assembling something of a horde as the swept through the templar sanctuary like a storm.

“The Herald of Andraste, it’s time we became better acquainted,” Trystane heard from behind him, or perhaps all around them, as they neared the keep proper.

“Who’s that?” Trystane said as he whirled around. “Did anyone hear the Lord Seeker just now?”

“I heard nothing,” Cassandra said. Trystane dismissed it and they continued, arriving at the steps up to the arched doorway of the castle. There was a lone figure at the top of the steps – the Lord Seeker. Trystane motioned for the others to stand back, approaching figure who stood with his back to Trystane, facing the doorway.

“What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?” The voice echoed around him, louder now, but identiably emanating from the Lord Seeker. It was weirdly atmospheric, as if the man wasn’t speaking as much as he was willing the words into existence.

Trystane ascended to the top stair, slowly, eyes trained on the Lord Seeker who still had not turned to face him. Abruptly the man whipped to face him, lunging at him with unnatural speed, gripping him by his shoulders and pulling him back. Trystane tried to resist, but he could feel the edges of his vision fading, sensation failing him as the Lord Seeker hissed “At last.” Black smoke swirled around him from the edges of his awareness, enveloping the Seeker and himself, his vision dissipating into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! I appreciate your comments and kudos, I love hearing what you think about the story! Constructive critique is always welcome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane finds an unlikely ally in the fight for control of his own mind; back in Haven, Cullen helps him to process the events of Therinfal, and preparations are made for an assault on the Breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/2 of the Therinfal events. It's a little weirder to write, when I play Inquisition I always side with the mages, I've only played through Therinfal like twice.

Trystane was on the ground, grass beneath him and the air stagnant and odorless; he could hear nothing, not even the ambient sounds of nature. It was wrong though, he thought as he sat up onto his elbow, there were stone pillars in front of him, and what looked like cells flanking him… In fact, it looked remarkably like the prison in the Chantry’s basement in Haven. Except the floor was grass. The ground felt wrong too, not leaving any particular impression or sensation when his hands grazed the green grass.

Splitting pain washed through his head in waves, and his marked hand felt active, as if there were a rift nearby. It was reassuring in an odd way; he was so cut off from other sensations, for some reason. The loudest sounds anywhere nearby were his own breathing and his heartbeat, thundering like a drum, amplified by the lack of ambient noise. He stood slowly, taking in deep breaths of stale air as he cast a gaze around himself. There were the faintest traces of green mist coiling around the edges of the room, as if it was incomplete and the mist hid the scars in its fabrication.

_How did I get here_? Trystane wondered to himself and his own thoughts felt… loud somehow. Bouncing around his head. He vaguely remembered the Lord Seeker, being dragged somewhere, black smoke and his vision fading. _Am I dead? Is this the Fade?_

“Am I dead? Is this the Fade?” A multi-toned voice echoed around him. “Curious creature you are, Herald of Andraste.”

“Are you… the Lord Seeker?” Trystane asked, looking around. His wits were slowly coming to him, he felt. He was regaining his focus.

“Am I the Lord Seeker? Are _you_ the Lord Seeker? Show me what _you_ are,” the voice sneered. Trystane decided to explore this odd not-room he was in.

There were figures, black silhouettes at the far end of this mock basement. He recognized them easily, Cullen in his fur mantle and Leliana in her Sister’s habit. He approached them cautiously; he didn’t think this could be them, but he couldn’t rule it out.

It was plain to see this wasn’t the true Cullen. Trystane had become very attuned to the small details of his expressions, the way his eyes lit up when they sparred, the way he wore his emotions like an open book, the struggle that was ever-present which Trystane had not yet tried to broach.

“Is this one not right?” The voice said. “I see,” it hummed with satisfaction. Josephine materialized behind Cullen suddenly, a dagger to his throat. “I want to know you,” Josephine said, in its voice. Trystane’s heart leapt into his throat as the not-Josephine slid the dagger across the not-Cullen’s throat.

Trystane bit back the sob that threatened to choke him. _It isn’t real_ , he told himself. This creature, entity, whatever it was clearly wanted a reaction from him.

“You want to know me?” Trystane said bitterly. “And what did you learn exactly from that? Was it illuminating that killing Cullen would anger me? Anyone could guess that.”

“Analyzing, finding my weak points, exploiting, is this the man that you are?” The creature hissed. A door swung open ahead of him into another chamber. “Let me show you what you – what the Inquisition can become!”

Trystane stepped though the new threshold, knowing that he had no other choice. There he stood next to the advisors, gloating over the war table. “The Inquisition’s powers begin to match my ambitions, but we have much further to go!” The not-him pronounced, a vicious edge to his tone, the layers of the creature’s voice still present. It couldn’t copy him, not even very well.

“You’ve a long way to go, demon,” he sighed and brushed past the illusion, noticed in passing as it collapsed into smoke.

“It wants to copy you, but you’re too much,” a new voice, much gentler, down the corridor ahead of him. Trystane instinctively stepped towards it, but his suspicions reeled him in and he stopped just shy of another door, at the far end of the chamber and on his right. The wall ahead of him was blank, flanked by dry fountains.

“Who are you?” Trystane asked. If he was right and this was all the creation of a demon, then it had to draw from his memories to create these illusions – he had no recollection of this voice.

There was no response, but his gut told him to proceed anyway. He shoved the door open, stepping into an empty bedroom. _That’s not what I expected_. He turned to leave, stopping again at a gentle but urgent “Wait.” He turned back into the room.

The voice came again, this time directly behind him. “Envy is hurting you,” he spun around to see a young boy in patchwork clothes and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face. “Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You,” this last word added as a clarification, his voice pleading. “Not Envy.”

“If you’re another machination of this creature,” Trystane scoffed, “It’s more creative than I gave it credit for.”

“No, Envy cannot create, it can only steal, you know that you don’t know me, and that makes me real,” the young man said.

“Than how can you help me,” Trystane crossed his arms as Cole paced in front of a fireplace where the fire was frozen in place, the flames not flickering crackling naturally.

“All of this is Envy. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to be one person; too many, and Envy collapses. You can break free.”

“Free from… my head?” Trystane responded drily. “I’d like to stay here, I just want Envy out.”

“Smart, like a whip, too sharp for your own good, Percy always knew it would get you in trouble,” it said in a low tone. “You can push Envy out, by breaking free of its grasp, before it takes your face.”

“So we tire the demon into submission?” Trystane clarified, and he nodded.

“I hope it helps. It’s better than waiting to lose your edges,” he was suddenly nowehere to be found. In an odd, dazed way, Trystane knew he had been staring right at him. _Solas will love this,_ he told himself wrily.

He left the room to find the boy crouching by the blank wall. “This is all Envy, but it’s your head. You have to find a way to make him stretch,” Cole said, and then he was gone again.

“You know, you can just walk with me instead of disappearin’ at the end of every sentence,” Trystane grumbled. He stared at the wall, and he was reminded of Solas’ brief lessons on the Fade. Here, willpower was everything. If he wanted to stretch Envy, what he needed was a door…

The wall peeled back suddenly, morphing into an archway where a heavy wooden door swung open; Trystane recognized it as the door to the war room.

“What are you doing?” Envy hissed. “That creature cannot help you!”

“We shall see, demon,” Trystane scoffed and passed through the door. Already there were more gaps in the fabrication of the environment, more of the hazy green fog concealing the seams. He was outside now, in the courtyard of the keep in Ostwick. There were people scattered around the courtyard, staring at him, transfixed, not moving a muscle.

He heard whispers around him but couldn’t match it to any person. Whispers of how he was a mage, and not only that, he was fucking one of his father’s knights. _Such a disgrace, I’m sure the Teyrn is pleased he has Percival to succeed him._ He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Those were the insecurities of his adolescence, nothing more. He made his way through the courtyard, towards entrance to the vestibule.

“The insecurities of adolescence, nothing more,” he heard not-Percival’s voice nearby. “Are you so certain? Every time you call me an oaf, do you not think about how the Trevelyan name will go to a man who cannot even dress himself properly?”

“Thank the Maker there is more to ruling Ostwick that wearing a waist-coat,” Trystane sighed. “You should know, Envy, Percival would never be so bitter.”

The creature growled his displeasure, the guttural sound echoing around the courtyard, and the door to the Keep vanished. Trystane focused on the blank space in the wall, conjuring another door.

It was not the door he wanted; he recognized it instantly. It was an immense, daunting door carved in stone, dwarven craftsmanship and laced with runes to suppress magic, set into an elegantly arched marble frame. This was the entry to the Circle of Ostwick. He swallowed thickly and shoved it open. _It isn’t real_ , he said.

“You remember this, Herald,” Envy growled. “You toured here with Percival and Cedrick, and your father’s knights, pretended to be one of them even as you paraded through the prison of your kind.”

“You’re becoming petty, demon,” he swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and looked for a door, any door. The memories of this place were too strong, the Tranquil he had seen, the constant fear that a mage or templar would recognize him from what he was, the terror that he might never leave…

“Go up,” the young man’s voice came from nowhere in particular. “You’re more you there, and Envy can’t keep up.”

“Right. Just have to casually stride through my worst memories,” Trystane said nonchalantly.

“The smell of lightning in the air, mana circulating around you, you can feel it everywhere and you quash that part of yourself that calls out to it,” the voice said. “The templars look friendly, but you don’t meet their gaze. If you look at them, they will know you for what you are.”

“Not helping anymore, boy,” he suddenly realized he didn’t know what to call him.

“Cole,” the voice called helpfully.

“Right. Cole,” Trystane could have laughed at the mundane name in this absurd situation. He located a spiral stair to his right and made for it, quickly ascending it and pushing to the second floor.

He stepped up onto a flat, mostly indistinct plane, mostly blanketed in thick green haze; Envy was running out of strength to create more illusions, he’d wager. He could see the barest stone path exposed in patches where the haze parted, leading towards a short set of stone stairs. He recognized this as well, even if it was only a fragment. The stairs led up to the arched red wooden door of Therinfal Redoubt, the door where he had found the Lord Seeker.

“This is where you’re mostly you,” Cole said from somewhere on his periphery. “Envy is less here, but so am I. One more door, and you’re free.”

Trystane didn’t need to be told twice, and while he could feel the Envy demon rage against the edges of his thoughts, he knew he was no longer in danger. He strode confidently to the door and flung it open.

***

In the waking world, the door to the Keep collapsed under the force of the Envy demon collapsing back and away from the Herald, writhing and screaming with a voice that could no longer mimic anything but its own pain. Next to him Cassandra made to strike at it but its contorting, lithe figure maneuvered out of the way of the blow and into the keep.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Percival was shocked.

“An Envy demon,” Trystane and Cassandra said at the same time. “It tried to steal my form,” Trystane said bitterly.

“So an Envy demon impersonated the Lord Seeker and infiltrated the Order,” Barris was clearly hit hard. “How could we have allowed this to happen? Maker,”

“We’ll figure that out later,” Trystane interrupted. “Right now, we need to stay strong. We need to kill it.” Barris nodded and they continued into the Keep.

The demon was sheltered behind a magic barrier, guarding itself while it nursed its injuries, its agonized wailing still audible from the far end of the great hall, on the other side of the barrier.

“Barris, can the templars take this down?” Trystane said.

“Yes, we can,” Barris there was grim determination in his eyes, in his clenched jaw. “Templars, to me! Someone find some untainted lyrium!” In short order the templars had found a crate of blue lyrium, and five knight-templars stood ready to break the barrier. Trystane stepped back slightly as the templars planted their swords into the stone in front of the barrier, blades wreathed in holy light. He could feel the electric lyrium in their power, but it was different, more like static, and he instinctively shied away from it. Beyond the barrier the Envy demon shrieked, a piercing howl that shook the foundations of the Keep itself.

For a moment the barrier held, and Trystane worried that the strength of the templars might not be sufficient, but then the barrier rippled, destabilizing and bucking before collapsing into a vapor of mana and static. Trystane charged through the empty space left in its wake, spear at the ready. He fade stepped directly to the demon, whipping it in its core with the weighted end of the spear, causing it to bend over double with the impact. He spun the spear around with a practiced, brutally efficient slash across its chest as templar archers, Varric and Vivienne began to engage it from a distance. The Envy demon swiped at him, impotently, and he brushed off the flailing limb with little more than a gesture of his spear.

Finally he cloaked his spear in veilfire, white-blue flame glittering against the brilliant Silverite, and thrust deep into the creature’s core, the veilfire spreading quickly across its body and hungrily consumed the mana that gave it shape and form. He stepped back out of range of its wildly flailing limbs, the veilfire burning it down to nothing but a bubbling mass of Fade residue, the echoes of its final screams piercing the sundered keep.

“It’s over,” Cassandra said between breaths; they were all exhausted after that ordeal, beginning to come down from the adrenaline of prolonged battle. “The demon is dead.”

“And the Order with it,” Barris said. “How can we even begin to recover? Our ranks are shattered, anyone of significant rank gone with the Red Lyrium.”

“We still need your help sealing the Breach,” Trystane said as he leaned tiredly on his staff. “Ally with us,” he said.

“But the Inquisition supports the mages,” one of the templars protested from nearby.

“I’m going to make this very clear, so listen carefully,” Trystane was suddenly irate. “I am offering you an alliance. Given the events of this day, I am in a position to demand much more from you than that you work alongside the mages to seal the Breach. You are templars – think beyond your conflict towards your duty. You must restore the Order, and the Inquisition can help you as it helps the mages. In return, you cooperate, you all play nice, and hopefully we seal the tear in the Veil.”

At first, there was nothing but silence in response. Then, gradually, the sound of steel on stone as the templars kneeled, planting their swords in a silent pledge. Finally Barris followed suit. “The templars pledge our support to the Herald of Andraste,” he said fervently. “You will not regret this, Lord Herald.”

***

Cullen didn’t like the look in the Herald’s eyes when they rode back into Haven. Trystane was among the first to arrive, and he watched as the man dismounted, handing his mount off to a stable hand stiffly. He looked much like he had after Redcliffe, and his heart sank with apprehension.

“Trevelyan,” he called as he approached, and his gut wrenched when he saw the pained expression the normally confident man wore. Trystane was a mess, a far cry from his normally composed self; his hair was down, greasy from days of travel and fell over his face and shoulders in waves, obscuring much of his expression. His clothes were dirty and worn and his lips were set into a firmly pressed line.

“We got the templars,” Trystane said abruptly when he saw the question forming on Cullen’s lips. “Most of them… it’s a lot to explain. We were right. The Elder One was behind their disappearance.”

“Come on, let’s go somewhere else where we can talk away from an audience,” Cullen sighed and wrapped his arm around the younger man’s shoulders, leading the Herald towards his cabin. He realized that he hadn’t been in the Herald’s cabin, except once to deposit the drunk man safely in his bed. It was cozy, smelling of dried herbs, parchment littering the desk and clothes strewn about haphazardly. He sat by the fire, slipping out of his fur mantle and hanging it on the back of the chair as Trystane went directly to a basin, conjuring water into the ceramic bowl and splashing his face, scrubbing furiously for a moment before sighing and grabbing a towel that hung nearby.

“Sorry, Cullen, I’m dearly in need of a good scrub,” he gave a halfhearted chuckle.

“Do whatever you need, I’m ready to talk when you are,” Cullen said.

“I- I wish you weren’t so damn kind to me, Cullen,” Trystane sighed as he sat – slumped, really – onto his bed.

“And why is that?” the blonde was rightly confused.

“I failed you,” Trystane’s voice was almost a whisper as he drew his knees to his chest. “I failed everyone. I’m the one who said we should go to the mages first, if we hadn’t waited, maybe the red lyrium-“

“Back up,” Cullen interrupted. “Red lyrium? What happened at Therinfal?” He listened as Trystane described the events at the templar fortress in brutal detail: Abernache’s death, the officers deliberately corrupting their knights with red lyrium, the struggle to liberate the castle from the red templars, the envy demon, finally recruiting the last of the Order once the demon was slain.

They were both silent for a while once he finished, and Cullen saw tears fall quietly down his cheek. He wondered how hard Trystane was fighting in that moment to reign in his emotions, to stifle the heat and tears and the choking in his throat. He knew what it felt like, thinking he had let everyone down. Kirkwall had taught him that feeling many times over.

“Trystane, listen to me,” he said quietly, stern. “You failed no one. You rescued the templars. You slew the Envy demon that was impersonating the Lord Seeker.”

“I let this situation get out of hand in the first place!” Trystane snapped, and his entire face was red, hands gripping his knees hard so that his knuckles were white. “I just sat here in Haven, waiting on these useless fucking nobles to get off their arses, when I should have gone much earlier. I should have marched up to that castle and demanded the Lord Seeker face me. How many more templars fell to the corruption because I was weak?” he was vented, breathless, his shoulders heaving as the last vestiges of his composure began to melt away.

Cullen said nothing, but stood from his chair, the wood of the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and Trystane flinched, certain that the man was about to leave him to his weakness. Instead, Cullen moved to the bed and sat beside him, pulling the Herald out of his tightly wound ball and into the crook of his arm. In another situation he would be mortified to allow himself to hold Trevelyan like this, but in this moment it felt natural. He felt Trystane’s sobs against his chest, the man’s entire body racked with his irregular breaths.

“You aren’t weak,” Cullen said as Trystane’s breaths began to even out. “A lesser man would have been broken long before even going to Therinfal. The templars are lucky that you came when you did. Without you, they might have all succumbed to the corruption.” Trystane was silent, so he continued. “You haven’t failed me, Trystane. You could never.”

Trystane sat up, but didn’t move away from the blonde, instead leaning back into his arm, raking a hand through his hair as he let out a shaky laugh. “I definitely don’t feel strong, cryin’ into your shoulder like a child.”

“I’m sure the stain will wash out,” Cullen nudged him. “Honestly, though. You are one of the strongest men I know.”

For a moment, Trystane’s gaze met Cullen’s, vulnerable grey-green held in warm amber. A knock at the door interrupted the words forming on Trystane’s lips.

“What is it?” the Herald barked, and in that moment his façade was raised again, the mask of confidence he wore around everyone else. Cullen wondered if anyone else saw this change, saw how Trystane wore a brave face for everyone else. In that moment he realized for the first time how young the man was for the amount of responsibility he shouldered, responsibility that grew every day. Maker, he had to be at least several years younger than Cullen was himself.

“Sister Leliana requests your presence for a debriefing, Lord Herald,” it was the voice of a runner.

“Tell the Nightingale we’ll be ready in a little while,” Cullen called, earning a surprised look from Trystane, one he was sure the runner mirrored.

“I- very well, Commander,” the runner stuttered and then no more was heard.

“As if they needed anything to fuel their rumors,” Trystane frowned and, suddenly conscious of how close he had drawn to the blonde, he shifted to the side, out of the crook of Cullen’s arm. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was stupid of me.”

“It’s-” Cullen began but Trystane cut him off.

“Cullen, I really appreciate this. I do,” he said. “But we do still have work to do. I’d like to get washed up before the meeting, though.”

“O-of course, Trevelyan,” Cullen flushed when he understood the hint to get out so that the Herald could bathe. “I hope you’re feeling better,” he sighed as he got up.

“He basks in the warmth of an amber sun, safe in the arms of his lion, he tells himself this is safe even as he falls ever faster. You smell of sandalwood,” abruptly they are no longer alone, a young boy kneeling in the entryway. Cullen, alarmed, drew a dagger from his belt.

“No- Cullen, this is Cole. The spirit who helped me fight Envy,” Trystane said. “Cole, please don’t say things like that out loud.

“You were hurting; he was helping. I thought you both should know. You both reach for the thing you’re missing, knowing you’ve found it but unwilling to know it.”

“I-“ Trystane sputtered as Cullen turned to look at him. “I’m sorry, Cullen, this cryptic shit could mean anythin’, really,” he  moved over to Cole, leaning into him and hissing “ _thank you very much, Cole_.”

“I was trying to help,” the spirit said innocently before it was suddenly gone.

“That was… interesting,” Cullen said. He felt his heart thudding nervously in his chest. “What did he mean by-”

“Please, Cullen, I need a bath,” Trystane pleaded, turning his face to look at anything other than the scrutinizing gaze of the man’s amber eyes, and tried not to think about what Cole had said. He really had just noticed the way Cullen smelled of sandalwood, the resin he used to buff out his shield in the morning.

“Alright, Trevelyan,” Cullen sighed. “I’ll keep the others busy until you’re ready.”

“Maker, bless you,” Trystane laughed as he simultaneously urged Cullen out the door. On either side of it, both men heaved heavy, nerve-wracked sighs.

***

What Cullen hadn’t known was that Trystane was going to take a full hour to scrub the last of Therinfal from his body, wash and dry his hair and then finally dress himself before making his way to the Chantry. What he had thought would be a few minutes of stalling Leliana and Josephine had quickly turned into the two figuring out what he was doing, and the three of them sat in awkward silence as they waited on Trevelyan.

“If he wasn’t ready, you should have just said so,” Josephine huffed. “It has been more than an hour already!”

“How could I have known he would take an hour just for a bath?” Cullen defended himself.

“I knew I should have sent that runner back to drag you both here,” Leliana taunted, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t join him.”

“You two really are incorrigible,” Cullen thought as a flush bloomed over his face. Suddenly he thought to the spirit’s – Cole’s – words. _Safe in the arms of his lion… he falls ever faster_. Could that mean…?

As if on cue the door to the War Room swung open and Trystane strode in, looking like his normal self. “Sorry to keep you all waitin’,” he said as the advisors stood. “Did no’ realize how much time got away from me.”

“Given what you accomplished at Therinfal, I think your bath can be forgiven,” Josephine said graciously. “We wanted to inform you that preparations are almost complete for our attempt to seal the Breach. If you feel up to it, we will be prepared by tomorrow morning.”

“The only thing we have left to determine is the positioning of the templars so that they do not interfere with the mages, and vice versa,” Leliana reported. “With Barris and his knights here, this will go smoothly. There is tension between them and the mages, but both parties seem to be eager to prove themselves, for now.”

“Just to be safe, I think we should keep them in different parts of Haven to avoid conflict,” Cullen added. “Until ground rules are established. But that can wait until the rest of the templar forces arrive.”

“Very well,” Trystane said. “I’m ready when you are. So am I to leave in the mornin?”

Josephine nodded. “That is when Solas suggested would be the best time to perform the attempt.” Trystane nodded.

“And once the Breach is sealed, we move onto the threat of this elder one. Thanks to what you saw in Redcliffe, we know what he plans to do,” Leliana said. “I have thoughts on that, but first we must see to the Breach.”

“Right. If it’s alright with everyone, I’m goin’ to retire early,” Trystane sighed. “Somethin’ tells me I need plenty of rest for tomorrow.”

“Of course, Herald. We will send for you when we are ready,” Josephine said gently. Not needing further prompting, Trystane stood and left the war room.

“Tomorrow, Maker willing,” Cullen said, “The worst will be behind us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome, and your comments are deeply appreciated! Thank you to everyone reading this, I really hope you're enjoying it!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition mobilizes its own forces and its new allies in its attempt to seal the breach; in the wake of this endeavor, Haven is thrown into crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, this chapter is very late being uploaded today. At the same time, I uploaded two chapters yesterday; I don't feel too bad about that loll. I didn't get to work on it til late today because I was on a work trip.. 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you all enjoy!

The atmosphere of Haven was charged with expectation as first rays of sunlight illuminated the sky behind the Frostbacks. For the first time in weeks, the people there did not look to the looming Breach in fear. Today the Inquisition was to make its attempt to repair the sundered Veil. While the village was normally quiet at this hour, only the guard and the Herald awake and active, the little village was abuzz with enough activity that it might has well have been midday.

Carts were prepared, lyrium in ample supply as well as healing supplies and weapons loaded into the wagons just in case. Horses readied, soldiers outfitted, and the ranks of the templars and mages alike swelled under the Inquisition banner. At the head of it all, Trystane’s heart could not still. He stood by his mount, one of Master Dennett’s, stroking the soft fur of its muscular neck while he tried to distract himself from what lay ahead. He had been a nervous wreck, channeling his anxiety-fueled energy into preparing himself. Before the second bell he had finished his morning drills in time to bathe, eat, and elaborately fix his hair into convalescing braids. Now his fidgeting threatened to undo his work, worrying at the pin that held it all in place. At the same time, his gaze never left the Breach.

They were not set to leave for another twenty minutes, but he had quickly surmised that he had nothing left to do. All of Trystane’s attempts to help, whether it be at the war table, trying to load carts, or simply trying to wrangle his brother into something presentable, were met by people fussing over him, insisting that he should save his energy. He had thought bitterly that he had too much. And so he found himself standing at the ready, fretting over his horse because it was the one thing that couldn’t stop him.

“You’re going to be alright,” Cole was suddenly perched on Trystane’s horse, but wrong, squatting on the animal’s back.

“That’s not how you ride a horse,” Trystane pointed out.

“The horse doesn’t know,” Cole replied confidently; the Herald didn’t bother trying to figure it out.

“How does that work, when you read my mind?” Trystane hummed with curiosity. “Is it intentional?”

“It’s a melody, but soft, I have to focus, find the edges of it and then draw it in,” Cole’s answer was not particularly illuminating. “You’re brighter, though. The mark makes it easy to find you, like a torch against fog. It’s why I was drawn in, in Therinfal.”

“And what does it sound like, now?” Trystane said.

“A lone eagle in the empty sky, proud and fierce. The wind is too sharp around you, too much under your wings, a current you cannot control, only ride. Only the Lion sees the chains that drag against your winds.”

“And how does the lion feel about that?” he was hesitant, asking; it felt like he was prying into private thoughts, but the question came unbidden to his lips.

“He wishes he could fly, but that kind of grace isn’t for his kind,” Cole says sadly. “He’s missing too much, the sharp corners that drag at his skin, graze against his skull, his body eats itself because it misses the blue too much.”

“What do you mean?” Trystane’s eyes snapped back to Cole but he was gone, and instead he saw Cullen approaching with Cassandra and Leliana. He suppressed the reaction that threatened his composure when he saw Cullen staring at him.

_All of this will be over soon_ , he thought wistfully. _What will they need me for after this? What can I even do?_ He measured his breaths carefully, fighting the nerves that fought their way up his throat and throughout his limbs.

“Are we ready?” he asked as the group approached. Further down the line the activity had fallen to little, soldiers filed into rank and mages and templars finished with their preparations.

“It’s now or never, Herald,” Cassandra said. “Let’s hope that this works.”

_If I’m lucky it’ll kill me in the attempt_. Trystane forced a grin. “It would be a waste to go to all this trouble for nothin’,” he gave a brief, forced chuckle, met with silence. Cullen only looked concerned.

“Then let’s not waste any more time, shall we? To the Breach,” Leliana said.

***

Before they could approach the temple, Leliana insisted that agents ensure that there was nobody inside; Solas had suggested that whoever this Elder One was, it was unlikely to not respond to their intervention on behalf of the mages and the red templars. Even though the nerves among the assembled were palpable while the scouts cleared the crater, the operation went uneventfully; there was nothing within five hundred yards of the crater center, not even a rodent. Once they received the all clear.

The mages were on the ridge surrounding the crater, directly behind Trystane in lines. Fiona had rounded up twenty of the rebellion’s most powerful mages for the task. Flanking them on either side were the templars, preparing themselves with draughts of Lyrium Even from his position within the crater the Herald could feel the growing static of the templars’ power; in response he could feel the adrenaline pooling in his gut, bubbling up through his stomach and out to his veins, his head clearing with the keen focus of battle. His staff was grasped firmly in hand as he awaited the signal.

“Templars!” he heard Barris call, heard the strike of steel on bare stone, felt the waves of static on either side of him. The strength of the Breach dimmed, the radiating waves of energy muted to a distant hum.

“Mages!” came the signal from Fiona, similarly followed by the setting of staff to stone.

“Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!” Solas stood beside him and a little bit back, facing the mages and gesturing with his staff. Trystane felt the electricity of mana washing over him and the Mark flared to life, glowing bright against the scorched stone. Percival clapped a hand to his shoulder gently, giving a reassuring squeeze.

Trystane looked back to his brother, smiling, and then beyond him to those assembled, instantly finding warm amber eyes and a small nod, a confident grin. He was ready.

As soon as he lifted his arm to the sky the Mark connected to the breach, a white-hot brand to his flesh. He stepped forward, the air suddenly thick and viscous with the energy swirling around him. The searing heat spread down his arm, through his chest, every nerve in his body alight. His other arm braced the mark high in the air and he could barely breath, the Breach tugging at the edges of his vision. It would demand everything for this ultimate affront, Trystane could feel it, and he strove ever further into the clawing, hungry storm of power.

It lasted for mere moments but he stayed there for what felt like eternity, suspended in the pain of his efforts, the hubris of his attempt to mend the Veil, before the connection broke and the energy channeled through the Mark was fed back to the Breach. There was a resounding crash, wild mana flooding the crater as Trystane collapsed to his feet, clutching his hand. He was unable to hear the pained scream that had been vented from his lungs, now silent as he sank into the stone of the crater floor and felt every nerve of his body quiet and deaden, pins and needles left in the place of excruciating pain. The Herald didn’t register anything around him until a hand settled on his shoulder and he snapped into the present moment with sudden focus, hearing finally the roaring cheers of those gathered. He stood, feeling a firm grip about his waist supporting him, smelling sandalwood resin as he turned to meet concerned eyes.

“You’ve done it,” Cullen said as he held the Herald’s gaze in his own and supported Trystane’s shaking body against him. “The Breach is sealed.”

***

The sound of reverie drifted through the chill mountain air; it was just past dusk, the town slipping into nightfall as the day’s festivities continued unabated. The townsfolk and Inquisition alike had celebrated from the time the Herald returned to Haven and showed no signs of stopping. Trystane hadn’t joined them, practically falling into bed, steered there by Cullen; Trystane had thought deliriously that he really had to find a better way of getting the commander into his quarters.

Now he shoved the door open after six hours of sleep, not quite refreshed but understanding that he had to participate in the festivities at least somewhat. His entire arm still felt the effects of the day’s endeavor, dull pain like constant static.

He made straight for the Tavern, already forcing his expression into a grin before anyone could catch sight of him moping. He still cradled his marked hand in the other gently.

“Herald,” a thick Nevarran accent stopped him in his tracks. Cassandra descended the steps towards him from the direction of the Chantry. “Solas confirms that the heavens are scarred, but intact. The Breach is truly sealed.”

“That’s one nightmare over,” Trystane sighed.

“Yes. There are still many questions to answer, and the Inquisition will need new focus now that the Breach has been dealt with, but this is a victory. I am surprised you haven’t joined in the celebrations.”

Trystane motioned towards the tavern. “I was just goin’ to put in an appearance now, Seeker,” he grinned.

“I understand you are tired,” Cassandra peered intently at him. “Do not feel obligated to join them for their sake, Herald.”

“I… appreciate your concern. But I’ve rested, and I’m feelin’ fit to have a few drinks,” Trystane maintained his grin. “Have a good evenin’, Seeker.”

“Herald,” she nodded and turned back to the Chantry.

The Herald’s Rest was loud, too loud, and Trystane thought that perhaps the name was ironic. He ignored the sound of a fiddle that grated against his skull as he flung open the door and strode in to uproarious cheers.

“I told you arse-nuggets ‘e’d show!” Sera called from where she stood on a nearby table, fisting two pints of ale. “Let’s ‘ear it for Lord Sparkles!” she downed one of the mugs in an impressive go amid more cheering and laughter.

“C’mon Silver, we’ve got a table over here,” Varric was at his side, patting the back of his arm before turning to shove his way through the throng of revelers towards a long table in the back where he had evidently gathered Percival, Dorian, Bull, Blackwall, Josephine and Cullen for a game of Diamondback. Trystane was surprised to find the ambassador there and even Cullen, who stood abruptly when he saw Trystane approach. Several of those gathered around the table suppressed their laughter at the look on his face.

“Wonderful, now our fearless Commander can stop worrying over you and truly get into the game so that I can take all of his money!” Dorian declared as he raised a chalice of wine.

“How long have you all been drinkin’ for, and why wasn’t I invited?” Trystane asked with mock hurt on his expression.

“We’d ‘ave brou’ ye, but ye were too busy weh yer beauty res’!” Percival’s attempt at a jab was marred by his incomprehensible speech, his drunken state deepening his accent so that even Trystane had to decipher it.

“Why am I no’ surprised to find you drunk Percy, you lout,” Trystane smiled fondly. He then noticed that the others at the table had shifted in such a way that the only open seat was next to Cullen, who was going beet-red and pretending not to look to expectant as Trystane sidled over next to him and seated himself.

Bull gave the two a knowing smirk. “I don’t know why you humans are so roundabout with this shit. Under the Qun we don’t do this shit of pretending we don’t want to fuck each other.” Cullen sputtered, all but spitting his ale across the table.

“You’re all twisted,” Trystane crossed his arms. “And you’re gonna get our Commander killed chokin’ on his ale.”

“That’s not all he’ll be choking on,” Dorian muttered smugly into his ale; Percival snorted in abrupt laughter and Trystane narrowed his eyes at the Tevinter mage.

“I’m shippin’ this one back to Tevinter,” he declared and Dorian blanched.

Next to him, Cullen had regained his composure and leaned in, speaking low so that he couldn’t be heard over the din of the Tavern. “Are you okay?”

Trystane turned back to him, almost regretting it as he was brought much closer to the blonde’s face than he thought. He blinked, focusing against the pull he felt towards Cullen’s caring gaze.

“I’m fine, Cullen, just had to rest,” he mumbled.

“I-” Cullen began before the air was split with Chantry bells.

He and Trystane both leapt to their feet as the noise in the tavern died down, replaced by confused chatter rapidly growing into alarm. The assembled Inquisition members bolted from the Tavern, and seeing soldiers making for the front gate they followed suit.

There they found Cassandra and Leliana already at the gate, the heavy wooden barrier closed tight. The noise of merriment and celebration had died down, replaced by the bustle of movement and frenzied action.

“What’s going on?” Cullen snapped as they approached.

“An unidentified force marches from the foothills,” Leliana said.

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked.

“None.”

“None?”

“Haven is no fortress,” Cullen hissed. “And who would attack us?”

Cole suddenly stood at the gate, head bent so that the brim of his hat obscured his face. “The Elder One comes,” he said grimly. “He is very mad that you took his mages and saved the templars.” Suddenly he knelt on one of the wooden platforms flanking the gate, pointing beyond it. “There.”

Cullen and Bull removed the bar holding the gate shut and pushed it open so that they could see what Cole gestured at: the foothills swarmed with black dots, red specks torches among the ranks of the approaching army, and at the crest of a tall hill, overlooking it all, the Elder One. At this distance he couldn’t make out much, but a feeling of foreboding crept through the Herald’s body all the same, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Maker,” Cullen breathed through clenched jaw. “If we want to survive this, we have to control the battle.” He flagged down a group of soldiers. “Get to that trebuchet and get it loaded! Hit that force with all you’ve got!” The soldiers nodded too.

“Blackwall, Dorian, Varric, Bull, round up the villagers and get them to the Chantry, and hold there,” Trystane said hastily. “Cole, Sera, Percy and Cassandra, with me. Josephine, please find Vivienne and Solas and tell them to protect the Chantry.” His companions nodded and set to work. Cole disappeared, reappearing with Trystane’s armor and his spear, doing the same with the others’ gear.

“Useful trick,” Percy muttered as he strapped his armor on with haste.

“The Venatori approach,” Cole said. “We should hurry.” With lightning speed they finished getting their armor on and rushed through the gate, Trystane looking to Cullen as he passed.

 The blonde grabbed him by the forearm, leaning in and looking him square in the eyes. “Be safe, Trevelyan,” he practically growled. Trystane nodded, anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach.

They arrived just as the Venatori vanguard crested the slope only to be greeted with an onslaught of arrow and steel. Trystane was a flash of silver through the battlefield, centering his attention on ensuring the trebuchet remained cleared, utilizing his fade-step to great advantage to defend both flanks of the siege engine at once.

“Cleared and loaded! Get to the other one, it isn’t firing!” A woman called from the trebuchet just as the lever released and its great wooden arm swung, launching a boulder into the enemy’s ranks.

“Cole! Stay here and protect the trebuchet!” he called as he and the others left. Cole was a terror upon the Venatori, flitting through their ranks with a discrete strike of his daggers for each of the trespassing cultists.

The other trebuchet had been overtaken, Red Templars guarding it against attempts to reclaim it. Trystane set the lyrium that had claimed them ablaze in white veilfire, merciless in the face of overwhelming odds.

“Herald,” Cassandra said as the screams of the Red Templars faded. “If we turn the trebuchet to the hillside, we can perhaps cause an avalanche that will block their path.”

“It might work,” Percy agreed. “And is no’ like we have other options.”

“Alright, let’s get it turned,” Trystane nodded. He and Percival set to rotating the big war machine while Sera and Cassandra guarded against the scattered Red Templars that found their way to them. Trystane lifted the boulder into place, thanking the Maker that his force magic didn’t fail him, and Percival primed the weapon.

“We’re clear!” Percy shouted as he stepped away from the boulder. Nearby, Cassandra kicked the corpse of a venatori soldier off of her blade.

“Fire it! Now!” she called desperately. Trystane stepped up to the platform and released the lever, feeling the entire machine lurch momentarily with the force of its release. In the distance, a cloud of disturbed snow marked the impact of the boulder. Moments later they heard the echo of an avalanche through the valley, an enormous flurry of ice and snow marking its path through the foothills, overwhelming the Elder One’s forces. Trystane stepped off the platform just as, high above them, the beat of enormous wings was their only warning before the blast collided with the trebuchet.

The force of impact sent Trystane flying from the platform, his companions scrambling to be clear of the rubble of the burning war machine.

“Was that a _dragon_?” Trystane shouted as Percival helped him to his feet.

“We must retreat to the Chantry! It is the only building that has a chance against the beast!” Cassandra called. She didn’t meet any resistance; the four turned and ran for the gate.

At the entrance to Haven, Cullen was ushering the last of their forces into the town. “Get to the Chantry! Now!” he urged to those that retreated to the small sanctuary of the palisade walls and the thick wooden gate.

“Cullen!” Trystane called as he, Sera, Percy and Cassandra approached the gate.

“Herald, thank the Maker you’re alright,” Cullen said. “When that thing struck the trebuchet… whatever time you bought us with that avalanche, the dragon has taken it back. At this point, we can only make them work for it,” Cullen thew his hands up in anger and exasperation.

“Let’s get to the Chantry. We can discuss there,” Cassandra urged and Cullen nodded.

***

“Welcome! Get into the Chantry! The Chantry is your shelter!” they heard the pained voice of Roderick at the open doors to the building. He was leaning heavily on Cole.

“He took a Venatori dagger,” Cole said as they entered. “The blade bit deep. He is going to die.”

“Charming boy,” Roderick muttered between pained gasps.

“Maker, what is that thing? Is it a dragon? An Archdemon?” Trystane asked once the door was shut behind them, certain that everyone had fled to the stone structure.

“I’ve seen an Archdemon before. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that,” Cole said. “The Elder One wants the Herald. He wants to punish you for taking his things.”

“If he wants me-” Trystane began without hesitation before Cullen and Percival simultaneously cut him off.

“Absolutely not!” the two barked in unison.

“He wants the Herald, but he will crush everything, kill us all because he can. I don’t like him,” Cole muttered while he leaned the Father against a stone pillar.

“I can buy you time, distract it while-”

“Dammit Trystane I’m not sacrificing you to that thing,” Cullen growled, stepping in close to the Herald. Trystane shrank back a step from the Commander’s anger.

Even if he retreated from Cullen’s response, he was still set. “Is there a way for everyone to evacuate?” he asked to anyone within earshot.

“Not that I know of,” Cullen responded. “All of our routes have been cut off by the avalanche.”

“Roderick knows,” Cole interrupted. “He wants to tell you before he dies.”

They all turned to Roderick, who straightened up with difficulty against the pillar, Cole again supporting him. “There is a way,”he said weakly. “You wouldn’t know it unless you had taken the summer pilgrimage, as I have…” he trailed off wistfully for a second. “With enough time, we can escape.”

Trystane turned to Cullen, determination in his eyes. “Cullen, take Roderick. Get the people out of Haven.”

“And you?” Cullen said quietly, stepping in close to the Herald again. Trystane looked down and away from the man.

“It wants me. I can use that to buy you all time,” his response was gentle. “I’m going to turn the last trebuchet on the mountain flanking Haven.” He felt Cullen’s hand under his jaw, pulling his eyes up to meet his.

Cullen was quiet for a long moment, but in the back of their minds they both understood what had to be done, and that every moment was vital. Cole had already begun to lead Roderick towards the back exit of the Chantry, Roderick calling for everyone to follow them.

“Trystane,” Cullen said gently. “I-”

“Don’t, Cullen, please,” Trystane whispered. “I really can’t take it now.” Cullen swallowed, quiet, and nodded. “Maker guide you,” the Herald said before he parted from the blonde. Percival made to join him but Trystane put a hand to his shoulder, stopping him.

“I’m goin’ alone, brother.” It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of fact.

“The hell you are,” Percy growled, pushing forward but to no avail against Trystane’s iron grip.

“Ma and Da can’t lose the both of us today,” Trystane was grim. “An’ I’ve no intention of lettin’ you die for me.”

Percival shrank at the expression in his younger brother’s eyes. He didn’t want to know when Trystane had learned the kind of pain behind those eyes. He nodded, swallowing thickly and stepping back.

“I love you, brother,” he said.

“And I you. Give my love to the family,” Trystane sighed, tension setting in his shoulders. He turned and shoved the door open, shutting it and setting a glyph of warding and a glyph of sealing into the door as he shut it behind him. There was a heavy thud on the other side as someone realized what he had done and tried to force it open.

He turned to the empty husk of Haven, the landscape so rapidly and dramatically transformed. A few of the buildings were ablaze, sections of the palisade torn down. He threw a barrier over himself and set off for the trebuchet.

There he was lucky to find only Red Templars, nothing before the wave of veilfire he unleashed from his staff, the otherworldly flame consuming the lyrium as it spread over their bodies, eating away at the crystal that had itself eaten away the core of their very bodies. He removed the barrier from himself, retrieving a fallen leaf from the ground nearby.

_If this beast wants me, I’ll have to give it a show,_ he thought with macabre humor. He cast a wind charm, allowing it to expand to envelop the trebuchet so that he could turn the winch and aim the hulking machine in peace. He could hear wingbeats overhead, the bizarre raspy growl of the creature that sounded agonized and enraged in equal measure.

He noticed no templars, no venatori trying to breach the charm. Perhaps they were as afraid of the creature as he. He bent into his work, sweat beading on his brow under the effort of maintaining the controlled mana drain of the wind charm while operating the winch. Finally the trebuchet was aimed, a small portion of his magic spared to lift the boulder and prime the switch when he felt the impact of the dragon’s blast against the wind charm.

Surprisingly the charm held, and Trystane thought perhaps that he would have the chance to launch the trebuchet unscathed perhaps. Then he felt the prod of elven magic against the wind charm and his veins turned to ice, fear clawing at his chest. There was an explosion of magic above him and the wind charm subsided, the leaf fluttering to the ground in defeat.

The wind of the dragon landing knocked him from the trebuchet platform and he landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The dragon circled him, blocking the retreat behind him as a line of flames flanked him on either side. As he got up, lancing pain in his side, he saw a tall, dark ominous figure approach from across the flame.

A controlled release of magic, and the flames died in front of the figure, allowing it to approach unimpeded.

“Enough!” a deep, surprisingly human voice commanded. The sight of the creature reviled the Herald – it was taller than a man by at least a head, gaunt and grey-skinned, steel armor fused into its chest and red lyrium clinging to its skull. It wore tattered fabric stretched over its frame to cover the extensive sores covering it. It was truly the stuff of nightmares, and Trystane’s blood ran cold at its approach. “Pretender,” it hissed in its gravelly human tone. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

“I don’t fear you,” Trystane hissed, reaching for his spear and realizing it was gone.

“Empty words, often flung by mortals into the darkness. They are always lies,” the Elder One dismissed him entirely. “Know me – know what you have pretended to be.” It drew closer, slowly, a predator certain of its kill. “Exalt the Elder One,” it hissed. “The _will_ that is Corypheus!”

“I will never yield,” Trystane’s confidence was hollow, and perhaps this Corypheus knew it.

“You will resist. You will always resist,” Corypheus’ impossible long, skeletal hand lifted, brandishing a ridged metal orb. Trystane could feel mana emanating from it in waves; it felt like the Breach, reaching out instinctively for the mark. “It matters not,” it continued. “I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now.” The orb in its grasp pulsated a violent red and Trystane felt the mark flare to life, searing that now familiar pain into his palm as he grasped at his wrist, collapsing to his knees with the pain.

“It is your fault, ‘Herald’,” Corypheus continued, voice dripping with venom. “You interrupted a ritual years in planning and instead of dying, you stole its purpose. I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens! And you used the anchor to undo my work. The _gall_ ,” he spat as he ceased whatever he was doing to the mark; Trystane gasped for air against the punishing pain still searing in the angry mark.

“What was this thing meant to do, then?” Trystane yelled, pained, confused.

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it,” the creature sneered. It cleared the distance between them in two long strides, surprisingly quick, grasping Trystane by the wrist and hauling him into the air; he felt his feet dangle loosely below him and his stomach churned, fear gripping his guts and flooding his veins. “I once breached the fade in the name of another, to serve the gods of the old empire in person,” Corypheus hissed. “I found only chaos and corruption. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the _will_ to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and give this world the nation, and _god_ , it requires. Beg that I succeed, for I have glimpsed the seat of the Gods, and it was _empty_.”

Somehow, beyond the pain in his hand and the fear coiling in his stomach, Trystane pushed forward into a moment of clarity. Corypheus was menacing, but behind his voice there was anguish, there was pain and regret. A confused and broken creature, flinging the hurt of his betrayal against the world in a vain attempt to reconcile his shattered reality. Trystane almost pitied him – almost.

Suddenly Corypheus growled, flinging Trystane against the trebuchet. He hit hard, gasping at the pain as his skull whipped against the wood, before reeling and regaining his balance.

“The anchor is permanent,” Corypheus seethed. “You have spoilt it with your stumbling.”

Trystane saw his spear lying on the platform in front of him, and grim determination settled into his chest. He brought it flying to his open palm, brandishing it confidently. In the distance a flare pierced the dark of the night sky, and Trystane smiled a small, sad smile. The creature, in its arrogance, had given little to thought as to why he was here in the first place, preferring instead to perform its little drama for him.

“You’re an arrogant fool,” Trystane hissed. “Good to know,” with a flick of his wrist and a flash of silver the cord was severed, the boulder launched to the mountain looming over the town. He wasted no time in seeing Corypheus’ reaction – he bolted for a collapsed section of the pallisade wall, leaping over it without looking as he heard the rush of the oncoming snow, the roar of the dragon and the beating of wings, He landed hard on one foot, seeing for only moment a small gap in the rocks ahead of him and dove for it on instinct; a moment later the avalanche swept over the town, sealing him in.

***

Trystane sat up in the bitter cold, pain radiating through his back, his neck and his wrist, the angry pulsating anchor giving an eerie green light to the icy cavern in which he found himself.

The caves beneath Haven – there had once been a dragon-worshipping cult here, his memory supplied helpfully as he surveyed his surroundings. His spear had landed nearby; he took a moment to thank the Maker he hadn’t accidentally skewered himself as he fell.

There was no source of light aside from the mark, so Trystane conjured Veilfire in the palm of one hand, basking in the light and slight warmth that it radiated. In the white light of the veilfire he could see a corridor stretching out ahead of them. He gave a resigned sigh and followed it; it led through a series of small caves and out the side of the mountain, where the wind had whipped up a blizzard.

_Either I freeze to death in the caves or I freeze to death trying to find the others_ , he thought bitterly. The image of Cullen came unbidden to his mind’s eye, his shy smile and warm gaze. He let out a broken, choked sob as he stepped out into the cold.

_I’m sorry Cullen, I failed you again. I got Haven destroyed. This is all my fault_. He quashed another sob that threatened to escape his lungs. He had to focus. The veilfire he cupped in his hands gave off just enough warmth that he could push against the bitter piercing wind and driving snow. He saw a collapsed wagon ahead, moving in the direction of a gap between two peaks. He pointed himself in that direction and trudged heavily through the snow, directing just the barest breath of magic into his aching limbs. His mana was running low; he would have to be very sparing with it.

In the distance he heard wolves howl, and drew his arms tight against himself, cupping the veilfire to his chest. He was lucky there was nothing here that the veilfire could ignite; it was more a memory of fire, a dream, and it only burned on lyrium and magic.

He didn’t know how long he walked. Whenever his feet began to fall to heavily in the snow or drag too much, he released a bit of healing magic into his frozen limbs, giving him just enough respite to continue his icy march. Trystane could no longer feel his feet, his thighs, even the veilfire was beginning to wane and the heat was driven back by the intense cold.

Eventually the winds died down, though that did little for him. He had no way to judge the time that had passed – if he stopped to look at the stars, he knew he would collapse. His thoughts were a dogged push, one singular thought dragging one foot in front of the other. The veilfire was gone now, and he leaned heavily on his staff for support. Eventually he came upon a fire, cinders glowing underneath the charcoal.

_Embers? Recent._

He was nearing the gap in the mountain peaks, a narrow mountain pass. Trystane shuddered weakly with every breath, the cold ravaging his lungs and his body all but completely numbed. His tight grip on his staff was the only thing anchoring him to this world, and his footfalls were coming slower and more pained. He was failing. His body was failing. As he crested the slope leading to the mountain pass, he felt the staff fall from his grip and he stumbled forward, into the snow without a sound.

***

Cullen sat at the edge of the camp watching the mountain pass; he had long since relieved the watchman of his post, preferring to remain there himself. Percival had eventually taken up the post with him, and they had stayed there in dread silence for what felt like hours.

“He’s got to come back,” Cullen whispered. “He always comes back. Maker-“ he pressed his face into his hands and heaved a heavy sigh. A voice in the back of his mind, urging him to be logical, told him that nobody could have survived for hours, alone, in the onslaught of a blizzard. Not even Trevelyan.

Percival said nothing, gaze boring a hole into the snow before him. From behind them, footfalls through the snow.

“Cullen, Trevelyan,” Cassandra’s voice pierced the crystalline silence. “You both must rest. We cannot stay here much longer.”

“He’s coming, Seeker,” Cullen insisted. “He-“

“The white fire extinguished, footfalls every harder in the snow. No longer can I fly; is this what it feels like to fall? The mountain pass – he needs your help, Cullen,” Cole’s voice suddenly, crouched in front of the Commander.

Cullen jumped to his feet. “Are you saying Trevelyan is alive?” Cole nodded and without a thought the man was off, setting off an a difficult running pace through the deep snow. Cassandra rushed into camp, calling for a stretcher. Percival was on his feet in the next instant, following after the commander.

As Cullen reached the top of the slope, his heart lurched to find a dark figure sunk into the snow, a very fine layer of the crystalline powder settling on his lithe frame. He all but sprinted to the man, landing with a heavy thud on his knees beside him and scooping his torso into his arms. “Trystane – Trystane!” he called, anguish in his voice. He pressed his ear to Trevelyan’s chest, hearing the faintest of rhythms within. He pulled the man to his chest, cradling him and standing up as Percival arrived.

“Brother,” he whispered, voice hoarse – he had been crying for hours. Cullen had had to tear him away from the Chantry door, and it had broken his heart. “You fool,” he said as he touched his forehead to Trystane’s, the skin cold as ice against his. His hair was frozen and he was deathly pale, except for where the blizzard had rubbed the skin of his sheeks to nearly raw. Cullen cradled him closer, and he felt Trystane shift in his grasp, the man turning blindly into the fur of his mantle, a pained whine escaping his hoarse throat.

“Let’s get him to camp. Grab his staff,” Cullen said hurriedly and set as quick a pace as he could without being rough, down towards the camp past a pair of baffled runners carrying a stretcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are always welcome! Y'all's feedback is giving me life and I can't thank you enough for the positivity. I'd also welcome constructive criticism! More to come tomorrow (read: later today, as it's past 1am...), at a more reasonable hour hopefully.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battered, broken and frozen Herald is brought into the camp; plans are laid for what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter brought me life, and I hope you guys like it as much as I did. Thanks for reading!

Percival stood watch outside the tent that Adan had set up for his brother’s treatment. He had been lucky, in his life, to never find himself in such a gut-wrenchingly tragic situation. In the moment his brother had shut the door and the hiss of magic on the door told him that it had been sealed, all reason fled Percival’s body and he had lunged for the door, kicking and beating it in a panic. Cullen had had to pry him away, telling him that they needed to get the villagers to safety. The break in the commander’s voice had been practically tangible.

Cullen and Adan had had to cut the frozen clothes from his body while he watched, petrified. They told him that Trys was alive but he could hardly believe it. He didn’t allow himself to hope for a long time while Solas and the apothecary had tended to their Herald, wrapping him in bandages, giving him potions and lyrium. There were no spirit healers other than Trystane himself in the Inquisition, and so they had decided to see to him as well as they could until he awoke and could heal himself.

Solas told them that the only reason the Herald was alive was through clever application of healing magic, but even with that it was something of a miracle he was alive. Percival had been asked to stand guard at the door, ensuring that nobody saw the Herald so badly injured. He had never felt so useless; even Cullen, inexperienced with healing to any degree, was making himself useful, fetching supplies, helping to move and shift Trystane so that they could properly tend to his wounds, sitting at the silver-haired man’s side and holding his hand in his once they had done all they could do.

Now his brother was wrapped in furs, a fire stoked very near to the cot that had been set up for him. Percival had spent himself crying, and now only felt uselessly numb. He momentarily marveled at the efficiency of the Inquisition; even in a crisis they had managed to scrounge together decent supplies, and had brought all of the scouting equipment that stood at the ready for deployment to forward camps: tents, beds, torches, food and potions. Once the activity died down and they had made camp for the night, the shock had set in, reprieved only briefly at news the Herald had been found.

Percival turned to look at his brother, still asleep and wrapped in a thick bundle of furs. Cullen had added his own fur mantle to the pile, and Percy felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips as he saw the man watching over Trystane. His brother’s hands clasped tightly between Cullen’s, the blonde’s gaze fixated on the other’s resting face. He was out of the woods, Adan had said. Now it only rested on the Herald’s own willpower to determine if he would wake.

“He’ll be alright, you know. You Trevelyans are remarkably stubborn arses,” he heard Dorian approaching the tent. Percival turned to look at him and found the tevinter mage holding a wrapped bundle of provisions and two steaming mugs. “You two need to rest,” Dorian sighed. “He’s going to pull through this.”

“How do you know?” Percival’s voice was still hoarse, barely audible from how spent it was.

“Because he’s survived worse, I think,” Dorian was surprisingly gentle – it was rare for him to be so serious. “The Conclave, Redcliffe, Therinfal, sealing the Breach. Like I said, it’s not easy to beat you Trevelyans. You Marchers are a tough sort of folk. Rough around the edges, perhaps,” he nudged with a slight smirk, “But tough.”

Percival sat down onto his stool accepting a mug of hot tea and a sandwich from Dorian, who then stepped into the tent. He heard Pavus trying to tell Cullen to go get some sleep.

“I need to be here,” Cullen’s voice came from the tent. “When he wakes up.” There was no further discussion, and a moment later Dorian stepped back out into the cold air of the Frostbacks.

“Stubborn southerners,” he chuckled. He had at least succeeded in convincing Cullen to take the tea and sandwich, for which Percival was grateful. Cullen was a good man, and Percival himself would tell him to get some rest if it weren’t quite so hypocritical of him.

“Dorian-” Percival spoke up when it looked like the mage was leaving. “Do you mind sittin’ with me awhile? Please,” he flushed slightly when he saw the grin stretch across Pavus’ expression.

“Of course, I was just going to find a stool,” Dorian said. “Unless you want me to ruin my robes again, Trevelyan.” This earned a chuckle from the larger man. Naturally Dorian had made it here with his clothes unscathed, while Percival’s black hair was caked with sweat and blood, his clothes no better off, his armor long-since stripped but no more effort made to clean himself. Percival looked himself over, suddenly self-conscious, which was odd for the giant of a man. A moment later Dorian had retrieved a stool from a nearby fire and sat it close to the elder Trevelyan. When he sat he cupped his hands and Percival could feel warm air radiating from the space between them. “A handy trick in the field,” Dorian said. “Enough fire magic to create heat without burning anything. I’ll have to teach it to your brother, sometime, although he might lack the proper control with fire. Perhaps it could help him the next time he fights an Archdemon and then takes a hike through a blizzard.”

Percival laughed quietly before he turned to look through the tent’s flap again. “My fool brother,” he said fondly before leaning into Dorian’s warmth.

***

The first thing Trystane was aware of was amniotic warmth covering his body, the sense of weight on him and he felt like he was floating in it, basking in the sensation of warmth. Such a pleasant contrast to the cold. He was only certain that this was better then piercing winds, flurries of snow. Why had he been so cold, practically frozen? Perhaps he was dead – perhaps this was the bosom of the Maker, and he had passed through the Fade. He felt in a hazy, dreamlike way that perhaps this was fitting. No Golden City, no blinding divine light, just warmth and comfort.

He heard a voice, distantly. It intoned low and deep words that he couldn’t quite make out; somehow he knew that voice. He struggled to remember. It felt very important, but his mind was reluctant to work. It was getting louder, blanketed in ambient noise and another voice, urgent. Electricity pierced his consciousness, pulling him into greater focus. Lyrium. He could feel the mana spreading through his limbs, waking them up, and without meaning he gave a low, pained whine. He didn’t want to leave this warmth. He didn’t want to feel anything but the ambient heat and darkness.

“Solas, he’s moving, should I hold him still?” he recognized the voice now. _Cullen_. _What is he doing here? What’s happening?_

“Yes, please keep from still. We don’t want to disturb his fractured rib.” Another voice. Not Cullen. The texture was rougher, deeper. Adan?

The lyrium was relentless, pulling him up out of the darkness and he protested in a low groan, limbs flexing as he tried to resist the pull of awareness. He felt something hold him by his upper arms. The black was fading into grey, the edges dissolving into bright wight and he blinked his eyes open as the electricity finally won, pulling him into wakefulness.

There were people, looming over him. He identified them one by one, his mind still groggy. Solas, his face neutral. Adan not looking at him but doing something on the edge of his vision. Percival coming into his field of view. “Is he awake?” his voice was tinged in fear and beneath it, tentative hope.

Cullen. Blonde hair a mess, disturbed by anxious hands that couldn’t let it be. Bags under his eyes, deep warm amber that did more than the lyrium did to focus him as he fekt himself drawn into the concern gaze.

Concern wasn’t quite the word for it. It was more than that. There was an edge of panic to it, the light of hope and… something softer. Something deeper. He could lose himself in the amber light.

“Cullen,” he groaned and stirred, feeling several people still restraining his movement. Had they said something about a broken rib? “Cullen, I-” He didn’t know what he was saying, but the blonde shushed him gently.

“Don’t speak. You’re hurt. You need to rest, and sit still,” Cullen said. He felt pressure at his hands, turned his head with difficulty to see his hands clasped in Cullen’s. He didn’t know that a tired grin tugged at the corner of his cheeks.

“He finally wakes up ,and the first word ‘e says is Cullen,” he heard Percival pout. “What am I then? Only ‘is brother.”

“An oaf,” he said with difficulty and there were scattered laughs around the tent, much to Percy’s chagrin. Trystane realized that there were several people there, not just the ones at his tent. He tried to sit up, hissing at a sharp pain in his upper abdomen.

“Herald, listen,” he heard Solas’ voice. “Your rib is fractured, perhaps broken. We don’t have any healers here. You will need to use magic to heal it yourself.”

Trystane’s conscious was finally being dragged into focus, and he blinked a few times. He finally remembered – the Breach, the assault on Haven, Corypheus.

“I-” he suddenly gasped in alarm. “What happened. How did I get here?”

“I found you in the snow. Maker knows how you managed to walk all the way there in a blizzard, with your injuries,” Cullen said gently.

The pain in his abdomen was growing worse, and Trystane let out a sharp exhale as he pulled one his his hands from Cullen’s grasp, setting it over where he felt the pain. Gold light filled the relatively small tent, he felt spirits flock to the light and he latched onto one, guiding it into the light and searching through the jagged edges of broken bone and bruised, torn flesh and muscle. Within moments the pain dulled, the bone setting itself and mending slowly, the swelling falling and the bruised skin knitting back together. Those gathered around the bed watched intently as the almost black discoloration faded to purple, then to yellow. Trystane removed his hand, grunting with the spent effort but clearly relieved. He sat up easier against the furs that had been piled behind him in the absence of pillows.

“Hours spent fussin over him, and he fixes his own damn rib in a minute,” Adan sighed. “Wish I was a mage, sometimes.”

“Where is Corypheus,” Trystane asked Cullen.

“Who is that?” Solas interjected.

“The Elder One,” he said. “He claims he is one of the magisters that breached the Fade and unleashed the blight.”

A sobering silence fell over the tent, but before anyone could speak up, Adan cleared his throat. “That’s enough of that for now, we don’t need that shit stressing you out. Everyone out – he can talk to one person at a time Who’s going first?”

There wasn’t much discussion, as Cullen clearly had no intention to move. There was the rustle of fabric as people made their way out of the tent. Percival was the last to leave.

“I’ll be back soon, Brother,” he said. “You two don’t do nothin’ too _active_ ,” he continued with a smirk. “Just ‘cause your ribs healed don’t mean you’re fit for-”

“ _Maker_ , Percy, I get it, I’ll be good,” Trystane hissed, interrupting his elder brother who chortled in response. Then Percival ducked out of the tent.

For awhile, neither of them spoke. Cullen’s eyes hadn’t left his face in a long time, his hands still holding one of Trystane’s, still kneeling by the cot.

“I thought I lost you, there,” Cullen whispered and a lone tear shone in the corner of his eye.

“I’m fine, Cullen,” Trystane whispered, not meeting his gaze. He didn’t want to see the man’s intense expression, didn’t want to feel the things that it evoked in him. “Thank you for saving me,” he said.

“For saving-” Cullen laughed, the sound piercing the tense silence. “Right. _I_ saved _you_. You’re the one who nearly died facing a darkspawn magister, alone, to save us. Which,” he sobered up from his laughter quickly, putting a hand under Trystane’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. “You are _never_ putting me through that again. I’m not letting you.”

“Cullen…” Trystane looked down from that piercing gaze and withdrew his hand from Cullen’s, clasping his together in his lap. He realized, in passing, that Cullen’s fur mantle was covering his lap, and he threaded his fingers through the soft fur. Was it fennec? He swallowed the lump in his throat. “About what you were saying, back in the Chantry. I know you probably didn’t mean it. It was… a difficult moment.” He knew he had to give the man an out, a way to take back what they both knew he had been about to say.

“I did mean it,” Cullen didn’t miss a beat with his response. “But you never let me finish, Trevelyan,” his voice was low and he leaned in close; Trystane could smell sandalwood off of him and the floral scent of tea on his breath. He reclaimed Trystane’s hand, pulling it to his chest.

Trystane’s breath hitched and his heart felt like it came to a complete stop. He tried not to react; had he misunderstood Cullen? Surely the man wasn’t about to say what he _thought_ he was about to say.

“Trystane, look at me, please,” Cullen urged him softly and Trystane couldn’t resist the pull of his voice, turning to meet the man’s gaze that was now much closer. “I should have told you sooner. I’m a fool,” he continued, “I can’t believe it took something like this for me to finally tell you. Trystane, I love you.”

Trystane’s face immediately flushed and his entire body went into a state of shock, his mouth falling open but not making any sound. His heart beat so hard that he felt that it was probably audible to the entire camp.

“Say something Trystane, or I’ll likely die here,” Cullen said quietly.

“I- I thought you didn’t feel that way… about men,” he stuttered, the shock making his tongue heavy and uncooperative. “You said-”

“I know what I said,” Cullen interrupted. “I’ve regretted it for a long time since. I thought I couldn’t possibly deserve you. Perhaps I don’t, but I can’t… deny it, any longer.” Cullen’s expression looked almost panicked. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I’m sorry if it’s too late, but-“

Before Cullen could continue, Trystane summoned what strength he had to pull the man to him, bringing their lips crashing together almost too roughly. Neither of them cared – for now they were desperate and Cullen leaned into the energetic kiss, bringing his hands up to cradle Trystane’s face as Trystane’s arms hugged the Commender closer, practically pulling him onto the bed.

The moment was broken by a loud whoop from just opposite the thin fabric of the tent wall. “Pay up suckers! Those idiots finally said it!” Sera’s voice rang out, followed by an impish laugh that grew distant quickly. Trystane could practically see her mischievous grin.

“Maker, Sera…” Cullen hissed. “When I-”

“Shh, Cullen, let them ‘ave their fun,” Trystane chuckled and pulled Cullen back into another kiss, this one much more delicate, reveling in the sensation of Cullen’s lips on his – rougher than his, lightly chapped, the scar brushing up against Trystane’s bottom lip – it was better than he had imagined. “I love you, Lion,” he said quietly, flushed, his lips still grazing Cullen’s, foreheads touching just barely, and he stole another quick kiss.

The flap to the tent opened, and Percival stepped in, loudly interrupting their moment yet again. “Alright you two, Commander get off my brother, now that you idiots ‘ave had your moment it’s my turn with me own damn brother,” he said loudly as he paced around to the bed, standing next to Cullen with his arms folded.

Cullen, embarrassed, made to stand but Trystane hooked an arm around his waist, pulling him back for another kiss, this one deeper an passioned, drawing Cullen’s bottom lip between his and giving it a teasing bite before releasing him. He grinned to see Cullen completely red, his deep blush extending to his ears and down his neck, and he decided that he enjoyed seeing the commander flustered.

“I, uh,” Cullen was having difficulty processing speech. Percival grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him to the exit, all but booting him through the fabric flap.

“Took yer sweet time,” Percy chuckled. “Should ‘ave listened to yer brother,” he sighed as he settled into the stool that Cullen had previously occupied.

“Thas’ not fair,” Trystane grumbled. “Finally get my man and then you kick ‘im out? You arse.”

“Stop tha’ Trys, you know you’ll be havin’ plenty of time to bed your templar,” Percy taunted as it was Trystane’s turn to flush a deep red.

***

For the next hour or so Trystane was inundated by visits from his surprisingly large inner circle – Varric tried to sneak him a drink, Bull wanted to know about the archdemon, Cassandra was unsurprisingly stoic, but her composure occasionally slipped, betraying her relief to see Trystane recovering. Sera poked fun about him and Cullen, Blackwall gave him a brief clap on the shoulder and a nod, reverence in his voice. Dorian congratulated him on surviving being stomped on by an archdemon, but the man’s jests were more muted than usual. Solas hadn’t visited him for long, but mentioned that they needed to speak later. Vivienne’s usually regal demeanor was surprisingly softened, and she had clasped Trystane’s in her gently and told him she was glad he was well. To be honest, Trystane was surprised at the concern being directed at him; he wasn’t entirely certain he enjoyed it.

Afterward, Adan had ushered them all away from the tent, saying that the Herald needed to rest, and only consented to Cullen’s and Percival remaining with him. Cullen came back into the tent, pleased to see the eager grin that spread across Trystane’s face as he reclaimed his place by the man’s side. He gave the silver-haired man a brief kiss and took a hand in his, telling him to get some sleep; the Herald didn’t need telling twice, the warmth and the bliss spreading through his chest lulling him to sleep.

Cullen watched his eyes slide closed, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slow and regular and grinned to himself like a child. The emotional highs and lows of the past twenty-four hours had been intense: apprehension and ultimately joy at the sealing of the rift, to panic, fear, and finally devastating loss in the attack on Haven. Despair as he waited for Trystane, replaced gradually by hope and anxiety, rising to a new emotional high in the moments he had had alone with Trevelyan. Fatigue was catching up to him as well, to be quite honest. He decided to lay out some furs on the ground at the foot of Trystane’s cot, stretching out onto his back and claiming a couple hours’ rest to the reassuring sound of the man’s breathing.

***

Trystane was much quicker to wake, this time. After resting for a few hours he felt surprisingly refreshed, if still a little sore. It was always remarkable to see how his passive skill as a spirit healer helped him to recover from the deepest of fatigue. He sat up slowly, furs falling into his lap as he swung his legs over the side of the cot, but he kept Cullen’s mantle in his grip and brought it up to his face, delighting in the soft fur against his skin, the smell that was uniquely Cullen lingering in the collar. He remembered their first, desperate kiss with a light flush; it felt like a dream, so surreal against the backdrop of so much pain.

“Wait, you need to rest,” Giselle’s voice came from a seat next to him; Cullen wasn’t there, but he could hear his agitated voice outside the tent.

“I’m quite rested, Revered Mother, only a little stiff.” He said and stretched his arms behind his back. Even the once-fractured rib felt fine.

“You are lucky that your… unique magic aids you thus,” Giselle replied. “Many would not be so fortunate in these circumstances.”

“What are they arguing about?” Trystane deflected the comment; he heard Leliana and Josephine as well, the three advisors seemingly locked into an argument. Trystane peered through the flap in the tent to see them standing over a makeshift table, maps spread out around them.

“They struggle with what they have seen. We have seen our defender fall, and then return to us, and with time to pause we turn to doubt, and then blame. The more insurmountable our obstacles, the more ordained our trials seem, the more your actions seem blessed. It is difficult to grasp, no? What we, perhaps, must come to believe?”

Trystane sighed, standing and leaning against the tent’s central support. “This is all the work of zealots and fanatics,” he was exasperated with Giselle’s rhetoric. “I’m just trying to survive it.”

He stood in the aperture to the tent, watching sadly as the advisors went their separate ways, clearly frustrated. He was about to make his way over to Cullen when, from behind him, Giselle began to sing. Her voice was was surprisingly deep, warm and timbred.

_Shadows fall, and Hope has fled._

_Steel your hear, the Dawn will come._

_The Night is long, and the Path is dark._

_Look to the sky, for one day soon,_

_The Dawn will come_

The atmosphere throughout the camp began to shift, gradually, as attention focused on the Revered Mother and the Herald standing in the entrance to the tent. Soon Leliana joined in, her bright soprano contrasting Giselle’s alto. Before long others were joining in, and Trystane watched in stunned silence as a crowd gathered in front of the tent, all singing.  Even Cullen had joined in, and Trystane focused on his voice through the mass of voices; the blonde actually had a beautifully even singing voice.

He tried to stifle the flush that threatened his composure, pretending as if there weren’t people _kneeling at his feet_ while singing. The song swelled as essentially the entire camp joined in, reverence in the air at the well-known battle hymn. Eventually the song died and Trystane couldn’t take his gaze off of Cullen, whose expression was one of overwhelming pride as he watched the entirety of the Inquisition kneel to the Herald in reverence, delighting in the knowledge that this exalted man loved _him_. The song faded into the crisp night air and Giselle moved next to him, head held high as she watched the crowd dissipate. “Any endeavor worth pursuing is a trial by fire that we must survive. What you take from it us up to you.” Without a response she walked away, leaving Trystane in the profound silence left in the wake of the song.

Trystane was interrupted again when he tried to make his way to Cullen, grey-green eyes locked with amber, not even noticing Solas approach until a hand was on his shoulder.

“A word,” Solas was brief before walking away.

There was no room for refusal, so Trystane shot Cullen an apologetic glance and followed the elf to the edge of the camp, to a snowy ridge overlooking the valley. As the Herald caught up to him Solas conjured an orb of veilfire, the echo of its warmth radiating around them, the ball of white-blue flame hovering over his hands. “A wise woman, worth heeding,” he said. “Her kind understand the moments that unify a cause, or fracture it.”

“If only she would leave the Chantry rhetoric out of it,” Trystane said sourly, and Solas chuckled.

“Quite,” he replied. “It’s hardly surprising, coming from a Revered Mother.” Trystane shrugged, acknowledging the reason there.

“I’m sure you didn’t want to discuss the Mother,” Trystane cut to the point.

“The orb you described,” Solas began. “It is elven. An ancient foci, a powerful artifact of Arlathan. It is unsurprising, given Corypheus’ claim to be an ancient Tevinter magister; their power was built on the backs of my people.”

“I reckoned it was elvhen,” Trystane nodded. “He used it to penetrate the wind charm, which is elven magic. Either that, or it’s simply insanely powerful, or both.”

“Astute observation,” Solas noted. “I fear that once this knowledge comes to light, my people will be easy targets.”

“History would agree,” the silver-haired man agreed, looking Solas in the eye and trying to give a reassuring smile. “But we’ll ensure to the best of our ability that the foci’s origin isn’t the focal point of people’s fears.”

“For now, the Inquisition needs hope,” Solas continued. “I have found a place in my exploration of the Fade, a day’s journey from here into the Frostbacks. It is an ancient fortress, waiting for a force to occupy it.”

“How do we get there?” Trystane’s interest was certainly piqued; this was a rather convenient solution to their current problems.

“I will tell you where to go, and you must guide them. They look to you for inspiration, for confidence. They will follow,” Solas seemed confident.

“Very well. Let’s go get Cullen and the others and try to narrow down its location on a map.” With that, the two mages turned back towards the camp.

***

Now that the Herald was well, he had his tent to himself. Mostly. He had pushed two cots together and now, in the last couple hours before they had decided to make for this new fortress, he was tangled under a cotton blanket with a certain blonde, arms wrapped around the man as he delighted in the taste of Cullen’s lips on his. Cullen’s hands were cupped behind his head, fingers threaded through silver hair. The only sounds audible in the silence of the tent was the sliding of lips against lips, occasional gasped breath. It was safe to say they were taking full advantage of their time alone, however brief.

“Maker, I can’t believe I waited this long,” Cullen breathed against Trystane’s neck as he pulled back to pepper the man’s jaw with kisses, trailing down the soft, fair skin to where it met his collar, reveling in the soft gasp when he sucked at the sensitive skin of Trystane’s collar.

“I feel like a damn fool, not seein’ all the signs,” Trystane chuckled. “Here I thought you were just a good friend. I see your ulterior motives now, Rutherford,” he smirked against the mouth that found his again. One of the man’s rough-textured hands untangled itself from his hair, sliding down his back to cup at his waist, holding him flush against Cullen.

“I _am_ a damn fool, for rejecting you when I did,” Cullen sighed. “I thought… I would ruin this, eventually, and it would be a waste of your time. I was afraid I didn’t deserve you. Like to have you would be to cage a bird in flight. Selfish of me, really.”

Trystane pressed a passionate kiss against Cullen’s lips, silencing him. “Be selfish,” he whispered. “I’m all yours, Lion.”

“You are going to be the end of me,” Cullen growled low in his throat, desire in waves through his body. “But for now, you have to recover.”

Trystane would have pouted, if he had the power to suppress the grin plastered onto his face. “I suppose that’s alright by me,” he said. “A man like you deserves to be courted properly, after all.”

The look on Cullen’s face was priceless, indignance and mock offense. “Oh, _you’re_ the one courting _me_?” he said to stifled laughter from the man in his arms. “I’m the one courting you,” he said, some semblance of pride asserting itself.

“Very well, Cullen, let’s see you court me,” Trystane said as he tried to roll out of Cullen’s grip, but the blonde held tight.

“I may be courting you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be entirely innocent,” he said as he pressed Trystane firmly against him, heat filling what infinitely small space there was between their bodies. One hand gripped Trystane’s hip firmly, pressing it against his own as he kissed Trystane varaciously, the younger man surprised at the sudden onslaught but returning it with equal vigor.

“There will be talk tomorrow,” Trystane sighed. “Now they’re goin’ to be much worse.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Cullen said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll have anyone who talks too much doing double time. If they’ve the energy to gossip, they’ve the energy to march.” Trystane laughed and nuzzled into the crook of Cullen’s chest.

“Very well, Cullen. But let’s try to get at least a little sleep beforehan',” he sighed into the warm embrace. He could be forgiven for forgetting that outside this tent they were refugees in the frozen mountains, fleeing what had seemed like certain death. For now, he sank into a deep, restful sleep in the arms of the man he loved, and all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, *finally* loll
> 
> Comments and critiques are always welcome! Thanks to everyone who comments, seeing your reactions makes my day.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition moves on from its temporary camp in the Frostbacks, towards a location identified by Solas. Trystane received a much-deserved promotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK i'm technically counting this chapter for friday even though it is now saturday at 1am, there were extenuating circumstances and I didn't get to write this chapter til 10pm. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

Their isolated sphere of warmth and comfort hadn’t lasted long, and within only a little over an hour the exhausted men were up and ready for the travel ahead. They had worked out over the course of the seemingly endless night where Solas’ mysterious fortress was. In the weak morning light the Inquisition moved with efficiency and purpose, the camp shockingly quiet in the wake of the brutal events of the previous day; news that a location had been scouted had raised morale considerably, but that meant little when the bar was set devastatingly low.

Wherever Trystane went people stared at him, and he was painfully aware. The soldiers, agents, mages, templars, the myriad citizens and support staff of Haven, what little buzz of conversation there was inevitably was replaced by awed silence and reverent looks. It was vastly unnerving. The Herald ignored it, helping where he could to organize movement, load crates, give some quick healing to someone injured or in pain. With so many mages around, the physical tedium of packing up and moving the camp was relatively painless.

The journey was difficult going; this path through the mountains wasn’t made for wagons or large parties of people. Many of the mages found their services required in erecting barriers over cart wheels, moving obstacles or shifting snow out of the path. There were frequent delays for carts and wagons stuck in the snow, with damaged wheels or the like, and on more than one occasion it was judged to be impossible to fix in a timely manner, and so a few carts were simply left, what supplies could be salvaged were shifted to other carts.

All the time Trystane remained at the head of the pack, flanked by Percival and Solas, leading the refugees to the shelter Solas had supposedly found. It felt dishonest to be publically claiming responsibility for finding it, but he supposed Solas had a point in the symbolic importance of it, and the advisors had agreed. According to the elf’s directions he made something of a show of scouting over the ridges and narrow paths of their journey.

It was worth it when he finally saw the fortress. _Skyhold_. It was impressive, even in disrepair. He finally saw it as he crested yet another snow-covered hill and stood over a huge, largely empty, snow-covered basin. At its center was Skyhold, a massive stone keep surrounded by high, broad battlements and towers, myriad smaller structures just visible beyond the wall. It sat on an isolated plateau within the basin, the slopes of the surrounding mountains falling steeply all around it into a deep chasm, only a drawbridge connecting it to the rest of the valley. The Herald noted with relief that the drawbridge was down; it would have been hell to slear that gap otherwise and find a way into the wall.

Solas had told him he didn’t know how long it had stood; only that it was ancient, and knowledge of its existence had been lost to the ages. Trystane didn’t understand how such an impressive structure could ever be lost.

Within a few hours they were marching across the ancient drawbridge; only a few at a time, because nobody was certain of its integrity, and as an added precaution some of the mages had thrown a barrier over the bridge to reinforce it. Trystane waited to cross last, and when he finally strode across the bridge and beyond the high portcullis of the ancient keep, he finally felt safe. The lurking sense of doom that had become background noise, that he had become accustomed to in the last two days, was fading now that he was surrounded by high castle walls and battlements; it almost felt like he was back in Ostwick, except the cold.

***

The day had passed in a blur of activity. The Herald was everywhere in the keep, helping set up tents here, move debris there, helping Fiona to organize the mages or aiding Josephine’s aids in getting her new office in order. Cullen didn’t know how the silver-haired man had the _energy_. It was exhausting just to watch him move about the keep, and he was certain that the man’s constant efforts were keeping morale high; the Inquisition’s people enjoyed seeing the Herald was as invested in their work as anyone was; he was a man who led from the front and it didn’t go unnoticed, least of all by the Inquisition’s advisors.

In this moment, Trystane was taking a break that had been mandated by the Seeker – she had all but locked him into a temporary quarters set into the gate’s towers. He had complained that he had promised to Adan set up a temporary sick ward in a small courtyard off of Skyhold’s main hall. Cullen had spent the entire day at a makeshift desk, after inspecting the hold, from which he directed the constant efforts of the soldiers and workers to rapidly convert this ruin into a useful fortress; even if it was an impressive ruin, it was neglected by time nonetheless. There were sections of damaged battlement; the keep, its extensive underground chambers and the surrounding structures and area had to be cleared of any wildlife; patrols had to be arranged and supplies accounted for, and he was coordinating with Josephine to send runners to Val Royaux, Denerim and nearby settlements to send word of their arrival in Skyhold and news of the battle at Haven.

Once Cassandra had successfully sequestered Trystane, she found her way to Cullen. “We are ready,” she said. “I will gather everyone. Somehow, I think this will be more meaningful with you than with me.”

Cullen nodded, looking forward to what was soon to come. The decision had been made while Trystane recovered at their camp, and events had been set in motion while he worked tirelessly to the benefit of everyone here. All of the advisors were confident in that decision, more than ever. The commander was almost giddy.

The door to Trystane’s temporary quarters had indeed been sealed tight, he was amused to find. Apparently Cassandra wasn’t confident in Trevelyan’s ability to stay in one place for long; _perhaps she has a point_ , Cullen thought wrily as he spotted the Seeker’s anti-mage ward on the door. The Nevarran was not one for half-measures. He took the seal off of the door and heaved it open to reveal Trystane lying on his back on a cot, leg bouncing restlessly. At the shifting of the door he sat bolt-upright, a grin spreading across his face when he saw who came through.

“Well hello there commander, to what am I owein’ the pleasure?” he said with a little mock bow while Cullen entered the room. Trystane closed the distance between them swiftly, shutting the door with a bit of force magic as he gripped the blonde’s waist and pulled him in close. “Haven’t seen you all day; you’re a busy man, Cullen,” he said with a confident grin.

Cullen couldn’t resist the invitation in those grey-green eyes, giving him a quick kiss, delicate and full of warmth. He did manage to pull back before he could get carried away. “There’s something… something you need to tend to. It’s important.”

“All business and no play, Cullen?” Trystane sighed before stepping back reluctantly. “Alright, where am I goin’ and what am I doin’?”

Cullen chuckled. “Always so eager,” he said wrily. “Follow me.” Without leaving any opportunity to argue he turned, pulling the door open and continuing through it; Josephine and Cassandra stood nearby, having assembled quite a crowd. Trystane followed him and the two passed in front of the crowd, across the courtyard to a flight of steps that went up the hill towards the keep. The keep was above them and to their right, and its front entrance was accessed by a sloping stone ramp that descended down to the level below, and they passed under that ramp as they moved up from the lower courtyard. Looking back at the Herald, he could see that the assembled crowd had not escaped his attention, and his eyes were narrowed suspiciously at Cullen’s back.

“Cullen, wha’ are we doin’?” he asked lowly.

Cullen ignored the question, instead saying “In the wake of Haven, now we understand Corypheus’ motivations more clearly.”

“He wanted the anchor; it’s useless to him now, so he wants me dead.” Trystane said it like he was describing the weather; Cullen tried to ignore that last part.

“Do not discount your part in this,” Cullen called behind him. He slowed down, allowing Trystane to draw level with him. “You saved the mages at Redcliffe and the templars at Therinfal; you led the Inquisition in closing the Breach. You are that creature’s equal by your own efforts, and we all know it.” He said as they rounded the corner and headed towards the stone ramp. Trystane saw Leliana perched halfway up the stone path, at a platform high above the lower courtyard. “The Inquisition needs a leader,” Cullen continued up the path, stopping next to the spymaster. She was holding an elaborately crafted weapon, a ceremonial sword with a writing dragon as its hilt and handguard. She held it out in front of her, level to the ground, resting on her open palms.

Cullen looked Trystane in the eye, trying to gauge the expression there; Trystane was excellent at masking his emotions in the public eye. “The one who has already been leading it. You,” Cullen’s voice was tinged with a note of pride, grinning lightly but trying to reign it in.

“I… Will they accept a mage as their leader?” Trystane asked hesitantly.

“It has nothing to do with magic,” Cullen said confidently. “Look at them. They’ve already accepted you.”

Trystane grinned a little at that and reached for the sword in Leliana’s hands, gripping the hilt gently and lifting it; it was heavier than he expected, made with heavy decorative materials and not balanced at all.

“For the Divine, for the people who have been caught in the crossfire of this chaos, and for the good of Thedas, I will do my best,” Trystane said, his tone completely sober. “We will find Corypheus and put a stop to his plotting. We fight for all of Thedas.”

Cullen’s smile widened; Trevelyan was a natural. He turned to the ambassador down below, calling loudly: “Have our people been told!”

“They have!” She tried her best to make herself heard despite her small voice.

“And will they follow?” Cullen called again.

Cassandra turned to the assembled, who began to cheer, and she turned back. “We will follow!” She called proudly.

“Then I present to you, your leader, your Herald – your Inquisitor!” Cullen shouted and Trystane thrust the ceremonial blade high into the air, swept up in the energy of the moment. The courtyard was filled with cheering and celebration as the fiery red metal of the dragon blade caught the sun and glittered high overhead. Cullen looked at Trystane in that moment, confident, smiling widely, practically holy in the bright light of the sun. As beautiful as the ceremonial blade was he only had eyes for Trevelyan, the soft silver of his hair falling over creamy fair skin, black and grey tunic fitted to his lithe, muscular form, the muscles in his shoulders and arms standing out as he held the heavy blade aloft. The blonde’s heart danced in his chest and it was only the strength of his professionalism and sense of duty that prevented him from sweeping the newly-appointed Inquisitor into a passionate kiss.

Trystane lowered the sword again, looking out over the crowd a moment longer before turning to meet Cullen’s eyes. “I’ll make you proud,” he said quietly.

“You already have,” Cullen responded. Next to him, Leliana cleared her throat.

“You two are truly adorable,” she said with a smirk as the two men realized they were not alone and were, in fact, standing next to the redhead and high over a crowd that had only just begun to dissipate; Josephine had already ascended the steps and were now making their way up the ramp towards them. “But right now we have matters to attend,” she said wrily. With that the spymaster turned up the ramp, the others following her into the ruins of the Great Hall.

“A lovely speech,” Leliana said. “This is where we turn that promise into action.”

“Thanks to your work in Redcliffe,” Cullen added, “We know what Corypheus will do next.”

“What we do not know is how he intends to do this,” Josephine said. “Assassinate Celene, raise an army of demons – our knowledge is very limited.”

“What we need is information,” Trystane said. “Firstly, we need more information on Corypheus. If he’s been around a thousand years, someone somewhere will know somethin’ about him.”

Cullen sighed. “Unless they saw him, few will even believe he exists.”

The door to the hall swung open, interrupting something Leliana had been about to say; they turned to see Varric approach.

“I might be able to help with that,” Varric seemed nervous, wringing his hands as he approached. “Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory… I know someone who’s dealt with Corypheus before. He might be able to help.”

“I’m always lookin’ to meet new people,” Trystane said. “Bring him to Skyhold.” Varric nodded, still seeming surprisingly anxious.

“I have some thoughts on the matter of the Empress,” Josephine said once he was gone. “Let us meet in my office later and I will tell you.”

“In the meantime, we need to work on Skyhold itself. I’ll have guard rotations set up by the end of the day, and with luck have things running with some semblance of efficiency by the end of the week,” Cullen said.

“Then we stand ready to move on all of these issues. And before we adjourn – congratulations, Inquisitor,” Josephine. Leliana nodded her agreement before the two turned and left, leaving Cullen with the Inquisitor.

“You ambushed me,” Trystane said as he nudged the man playfully, mock accusation in his voice.

“I knew you would accept,” Cullen smirked. “I’ve got to get back to work. You should take some time to rest.”

“I suppose I’ve got work to tend to as well. I can rest later,” Trystane sighed.

***

The Inquisitor leaned back in his seat, pressing a finger to each temple, hoping the pressure would alleviate the headache that was quickly building up. He had never been good with paperwork, even in Ostwick. Josephine had, miraculously, conjured him up relatively impressive chambers at the very top of Skyhold’s keep; being the Inquisitor came with some degree of luxury, apparently. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, yet.

There was a daunting stack of missives at his desk, approvals for repairs to the walls, reports on cleaning efforts and on the existing damage to the structure. There were nesting animals, cracked foundations, water damage, any number of problems. It wasn’t too surprising given that Skyhold had been abandoned for so long, but that didn’t make it less exasperating.

He unfolded another missive from Leliana; they wanted to acquire a former Circle arcanist to work alongside Harritt; he signed it without too much thought and put it on the stack of finalized requests. And then there was another, a report on repairs to the garden walls, but what was notable about this one was the prominent sketch of two men pressed up against said walls, with helpful labels. “Lord Sparkles” and “Ser Hair-Gel”. Trystane set the note aside to show Cullen later, Sera’s handiwork bringing a smile to his lips.

“A love letter from yer lion?” he heard Percival from the entry to his quarters. “I know you don’t smile like tha’ at _my_ letters,” the elder Trevelyan taunted lightly.

“And why’d I be smilin’ to hear from such an oaf,” Trystane gave a mock scowl and leaned back in his chair. “It’s a grave offense, Ser Knight, interruptin’ the Inquisitor.”

Percival didn’t respond immediately, picking up the missive that Trystane had set aside. He chuckled at it before setting it back. “Sera’s handiwork I see,” he smiled. “I wanted to see how you are; haven’t had a chance to talk since we got here.”

Trystane gestured for him to pull up a chair. “I’d offer ye tea but I’ve not got anymore,” he sighed, thinking wistfully on the elderberry wine his brother had given him. “And my wine’s buried under twenty foot of snow I reckon…”

“Stop tha’,” Percy shushed him. “We can get ye more wine. Be grateful yer no’ buried with it, brother.”

Trystane was silent for a moment, thoughtful, seeming to stare past Percival. “You should go home, Percy,” he said suddenly.

Percival was clearly caught off-guard, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. “An’ why would I do that?”

“This business of lookin’ after me has gone on long enough. It almost got ye killed,” Trystane urged. “I’ve got no desire to see my brother in danger for no reason. I’m too tangled up in this,” he brandished the Anchor to illustrate, “but you don’t ‘ave to be. Go home where it’s safe.”

Again, his brother was silent for a moment, before busting out in a fit of laughter. Trystane pouted slightly, irked at not being taken seriously. “Ah, yer a riot,” Percival said. “Canno’ believe you’d try an’ send me away after all this.”

“Don’t see what’s so funny,” Trystane sighed. “And you know I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done. We couldn’t have gone this far without you. I couldn’t have. But I can’t justify puttin’ you in danger any more.”

“Is that an order, Inquisitor?” Percival’s expression was impressively neutral.

“No, it’s not,” Trystane said. “You know I don’t want you to go, Percy… I just want to know you’re safe.”

“Far as I reckon, I’m the eldest, and it’s my job to keep you safe,” Percival said with a smirk. “No’ the other way ‘round. Now stop with this foolishness and tell me about Ser Hair-Gel!”

Trystane groaned and buried his face in his hands, to Percival’s endless amusement.

***

A knot sat heavy in Cullen’s throat as he ascended the stairs to the very top of the rotunda, scroll in hand. This had not been an easy task, but an important one, and it was very nearly done. Leliana had set up in the rookery, operating the Inquisition’s agents amongst the shadows that held their ravens. The spymaster stood at the guard rail of the walkway that encircled the rookery; this was the second highest point, after the Inquisitor’s balcony and it had a wonderful combination of excellent scenery and crisp mountain air. The commander had never been a stealthy man; Leliana heard his footfalls approaching and turned to him, somber.

“It’s done,” he said as he handed the scroll to her.

“Thank you,” she said as she clasped the little thing tight.

“Hey Leliana”, I need to send a raven-” they both started as they heard Trystane’s voice coming up the stairs, out of breath as if he’d been running. He stopped short, mildly surprised to see Cullen there and reading quickly the sober mood of the meeting. “Something wrong?” he inquired gently.

“A list, of those we lost in Haven,” Leliana whispered. She and Cullen were both looking down, shoulders hunched. Trystane stepped up to Cullen, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze before approaching Leliana. “You must blame me for this,” her voice rarely betrayed how she felt; in this instance, there was the distant hurt of regret. Suddenly she was very small, almost fragile in his eyes, the spymaster, the Nightingale whose very gaze could reduce strong people to groveling ruin.

“Leliana,” Trystane said, “We know who to blame for this. Corypheus attacked us.”

“But we were unprepared. _I_ was unprepared. My agents had been going missing in the field – I withdrew them, scared to lose more men. If they had stayed out, maybe we could have gotten more warning, could have better prepared.”

“More likely, they would have died at the hands of the Venatori or the templars, and Haven would still have been sacked,” Trystane said. “You care for our people. That isn’t weakness.”

Leliana was silent for a moment. “They are soldiers. They know the risks.”

“What’s done is done,” he said, reading the pain that she refused to show and practically pleading her to forgive herself. “We made the best of a tragic situation.”

She didn’t say anything for a long while, only leaned against the guard rail and looked into the distance. Trystane watched, almost feeling like he was privy to some intense internal struggle. It reminded him of the times he had been there for his sister, and a strange sense of protectiveness came to him. Almost on instinct he stepped forward, pulling the sister into an embrace. It only lasted a moment before he let her go.

“It’s alright, Leliana. It was a tragedy. We learn. And we make Corypheus pay,” he said. “You failed no one.”

“I…” for the first time, Leliana was at a loss for words. “Thank you, Trystane.”

“Anytime, Leliana,” he smiled. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.”

“I think Cullen is going to need a hug too; we wouldn’t want him to be jealous,” Leliana deflected her embarrassment quickly; she was smart as a whip and she gave him a lighthearted grin as he turned to see Cullen still standing shyly in the aperture of the rookery balcony, coughing into his fist to hide his flush at the Nightingale’s words.

“Glad to see you feeling better,” he chuckled before he turned back to Cullen, leaving Leliana to her thoughts.

“I, uh…” Cullen said when Trystane walked up to him, one brow quirked and arms folded as he appraised the man. “I could use some comforting too… Maker,” he sighed as his ears veritably reddened, his words hushed so that no one could hear the timid attempt at flirtation.

“If you need a big strong man to hold ye, Commander, I can manage,” Trystane chuckled as he stepped closer again, into Cullen’s space.

It was easy to forget that he was at least a couple inches taller than the blonde; the Trevelyans were all giants. With the man’s lithe figure and grace, he often gave off the appearance of someone smaller than he really was. He leaned into the silver-haired man’s embrace. He suppressed a giggle as Trystane’s long hair brushed against him, and he turned into the crook of the man’s shoulder and melted against the man, feeling strong arms circle around his waist and hold him close for several heart-pounding moments.

“I told ye I’d be the one doin’ the courting,” Trystane whispered into his ear with a wry chuckle and suddenly Cullen stood up straight, leaning back enough to _almost_ glare into grey-green eyes.

“Just because you’re the Inquisitor doesn’t mean you’ll be getting your way,” Cullen said with a mischievous grin. “I’m going to be courting _you_ , Treve- _mmph”_ he was silenced by a quick press of lips to his before he was released with another lilting laugh.

“Tell yourself what ye want, Cullen,” Trystane smirked as he made to leave, bounding down the steps with renewed vigor. A moment later Cullen could have sworn he heard a collision, the sound of falling books, and Dorian swearing loudly in Tevene.

***

The day had already given way to evening when Trystane finally decided to get some practice in – he felt to be in good shape, having healed nicely, he had finally caught up to his paperwork and had just concluded a tactical mission. The key points on the agenda had been to arrange a memorial for haven, to conscript for the inquisition, and to secure roads to and from Skyhold, as well as a route for their spies. Once their work had been concluded, Trystane had pent-up energy to expend and he seemed to recall having seen practice dummies set up near the soon-to-be tavern.

He made his way down the ramp towards the upper courtyard, missing his training area at Haven – Cullen had made a fair point about it once, but he had missed the point. He wasn’t trying to do his stretches in front of the soldiers, he was trying to do it in front of _Cullen_. He supposed, now, that it had worked; a stupid grin pulled at the corners of his lips.

“My dear-“ he found Vivienne at the foot of the ramp. She sized him up quickly, stopping him and placing a finger under his chin as she examined the remnants of cuts and scrapes from Haven. “You look _awful_.”

“I’m doin’ well, Madame Vivienne,” he said graciously. In her odd, domineering way, Vivienne was like a protective mother.

“At least you wear it well; good, the men will take their cues from your behavior,” she continued as she released his face. “But this was a loss, Inquisitor, and we must accept it as such.”

A shadow crossed Trystane’s face, darkening it for only a moment. “Now Vivienne, we don’ accept losses,” he said. “We’re going to make Corypheus pay dearly.”

“That anger is good – use it to keep focused,” Vivienne said. “But enough on that. Trystane dear, I’ll have you know I lost a good deal of coin on you. I expected you to have the guts to make a move a lot sooner.” She practically clicked her tongue in disapproval, and Trystane rolled his eyes with a laugh.

“Any gambler worth their salt should’ve known the Cullen was the limiting factor to tha’,” he said with a cheeky grin. “If your information was good you’d ‘ave known I tried already.”

“Quite,” she said with an amused grin. “Pardon me, Inquisitor, I have business to attend.” With that she swept dramatically up the ramp.

Trystane resumed his way to the dummies, wondering why everyone was so interested in his and Cullen’s business, twirling the spear absentmindedly when he heard the strike of a sword on wood. _Who in the Maker’s name is practicing at this hour_ , he wondered before realizing that that was about to be him as well. When he rounded the corner of the tavern he saw it was Cassandra, striking at a dummy with such force that she may as well have been felling a tree.

“What’s eatin’ at you, Seeker?” he asked as he approached.

“The business in Haven has left me… unsettled. Nervous,” she explained. “Forgive me if I am in your way, Inquisitor. As if that weren’t enough, I think I know who Varric is bringing here. And if it is who I think it is I will wring his neck.”

“Cassandra, I’m still Trystane to you,” he said as he set the spear blunt-end to the ground gently. “And I feel the same. Was coming here for the same reason.” A grin slowly spread across his face. “Spar me, Seeker!”

“I would not fight the Inquisitor,” she said flatly. “It would not be… seemly.”

“Come now Seeker, it’s training,” he said. “Unless you think you can’t best me? I could spare you your dignity, I suppose,” he hummed, playing her like a fiddle; he saw the impulsive glare set into her expression.

“Do not suggest I am childish enough to fall for that,” she huffed. “I am not so prideful as you think, Inquisitor.”

“Then ye won’t be mindin’ if I beat you in a match?” he retorted.

“Very well, Trevelyan, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Cast a barrier,” she said, and Trysane did as bid. The two moved off to the side a bit where there was space. They circled each other for a moment, Trystane noting that Cassandra didn’t have a shield today; she grasped her sword in both hands, almost as if it were a greatsword. Its length put her at a disadvantage, wielding it with two arms and with no shield. He stepped forward, testing her defenses with deft flicks of his wrist, sending the Silverite spear arcing towards her.

She deflected the strike with a minimum of movement; nothing more than an angling of her wrist. It was very efficient. Trystane gave a few more exploratory strikes, probing at her range and the strength of her strikes while he figured out how best to fight her. He had never actually fought the Seeker, he realized, despite the amount of time they both spent in training daily.

Finally, apparently satisfied with the exchange, Cassandra lunged forward, bringing the sword down in an overhead strike; Trystane side-stepped and tried to bring the staff butt against her side but the blade caught it just in time, deflecting the blow. She was very agile with the blade, maneuvering it much more deftly than most fighers; what was an opening for others was not for her. Cassandra didn’t give him time to think more, however, stepping in with a flurry of strikes, the force behind them heavier each time. Trystane blocked and evaded them with relative ease, but the blocking was getting more difficult – it was clear that she had led with less than her full strength in an attempt to lull him into a false sense of security.

Trystane tried to keep his distance, knowing that if Cassandra closed rank then the match was over; she was not the kind of woman to underestimate him in the final moments of a match like Cullen sometimes did. Trystane met another blow with the middle of his staff, holding it against the blade and attempting to slide it against the shaft of the spear and hook it against the hilt of the sword; Cassandra saw what he was attempting at backed off a couple steps before Trystane could twist the sword from her grip. He pressed the attack, using the increased distance to swing the spear in wider arcs, putting more momentum behind the weighted end of the staff when it met Cassandra’s sword, sending vibrations down the metal. In a lesser opponent the force of the strike would have made the sword leap from their hands. Trystane was glad that Cassandra was not a lesser opponent.

They traded blows for awhile longer, neither one able to successfully penetrate the other’s defenses. Trystane was aware that there was a small group near the tavern that watched them with interest but he paid them no mind. He feinted for Cassandra’s left flank, twisting the spear around to her side instead. She twisted the blade to meet that of the spear just in time, and Trystane himself around the point of contact, bringing the spear around and behind her to her left flank again; she narrowly side-stepped the blow. Then Cassandra lunged, sending him side-stepping and slightly off-balance. She pursued that weakness, moving to strike while he recovered. Trystane twisted out of the way barely, then bringing his spear up in defense when he found Cassandra closing the distance between them, but the sword was already at his neck.

“Well played, Seeker,” he grinned widely. “I’m glad you’re on our side!” He could have sworn the Nevarran smiled in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are welcome! I love responding to y'all's feedback even if it's just to say hi, y'all make my day with your support!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane meets with Varric's mysterious ally; Cullen faces up to a ghost from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a lil short, I had a busy day today and also it felt like a natural stopping point. Hope that's alright with y'all! Thanks for reading!

“So where is this ally of yours?” Trystane said casually, leaning back against the crenellation of the western battlement. Varric was turned the other way, leaning over the stone and looking over the courtyard.

“He’s just come through the gate a few minutes ago, and he’s getting a room set up in the basement; he wanted to be discrete.” Varric sighed. The Inquisitor knew who it was, Varric could guess, and was giving him the benefit of the doubt before his suspicions were confirmed and the impending hostility between Varric and Cassandra flared up.

Trystane nodded, not responding verbally, looking out over the Frostbacks; it was sunny and cloudless out, and in Skyhold it was almost warm. The enclosed structure had that effect, capturing the sun and warming the courtyard so that it was much more pleasant than the frozen valley beyond the battlements.

“Varric?” he heard a deep baritone from the stairs to his left; he turned to see Varric warmly greet their visitor as he descended from the wall onto the platform. “You must be the Inquisitor.” The man said with a nervous grin.

“Inquisitor, meet Hawke; the Champion of Kirkwall.” Varric said as the two men closed the distance between them, exchanging a firm handshake. Even if Hawke was tall, Trystane was even slightly taller, something Varric knew that Hawke was only accustomed to from his brother Carver.

“Though I don’t go by that title much… anymore,” Hawke said. He was a warrior, Trystane could tell. He had a rugged build, muscled and wiry, scars crisscrossing what exposed skin there was. He had jet-black hair falling in a tousled mess over his forehead and a red stripe across the bridge of his nose.

“It’s a pleasure, Hawke,” Trystane smiled politely. Hawke hadn’t quite released his hand yet, scrutinizing the silver-haired man.

“Rumor has it that the Inquisitor was quite the … captivating man,” Hawke said. “I’m pleased to see they were true.” At that Trystane flushed slightly and his hand dropped to his side.

“And I’m pleased not to disappoint you,” he chuckled. “But I’m sure Varric didn’t call ye here just to chat.”

Hawke’s grin faltered and he stepped over to the crenellation. “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus,” Varric said to break the pause. “You and I did fight him, after all.”

At that, Trystane’s eyebrow quirked. “You didn’t mention anythin’ about you two fightin’ that beast,” he said to Varric, clearly not pleased with the half-truth of Varric’s original proposal.

“Impressive view,” Hawke interrupted as he looked out over the courtyard. “For only being here a little over a week, it’s come together. Reminds me of my home in Kirkwall; I had a balcony overlooking the city from Hightown.” Hawke turned to look as the Inquisitor moved to stand next to him, sharing in the view. “I loved it at first, but after a while it reminded me of all the people who depended on me,” he said heavily.

“I don’t know who had it worst: you with the mess in Kirkwall, or me with half of Thedas,” Trystane gave a wry chuckle.

“You’re trying your best to protect them. I did the same,” Hawke said. “It’s a difficult job, bringing order to chaos.”

“Does it get any easier?” Trystane asked gently.

There was a pause. “I’ll let you know,” the raven-haired man replied at last, quiet. “I do not envy you, Inquisitor. But I may be able to help you.” With that, Hawke pushed off from the stone and turned to face the Ostwicker. “We didn’t just fight him; we killed him. The Wardens were holding him, and he used his connection to the Darkspawn to turn them against each other. It was brutal.”

“Corypheus got into their heads. Messed with their minds. Turned the Wardens against each other,” Varric interjected.

“If the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under his control again,” a grimace fell across Hawke’s face as he said it.

“Venatori, red templars, and now Wardens… Corypheus has been busy. Not a pleasant thought,” Trystane almost growled and pressed a hand to his temple.

“No matter what, we need to know more first,” Hawke said. “I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. He was investigating something unrelated for me. His name is Stroud; last time we spoke he was worried about corruption within Warden ranks. Since then, nothing.”

“Corypheus would definitely count as corruption,” Varric said anxiously.

“Did Stroud disappear with them?” Trystane asked.

“No; he left me with instructions to meet him in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood.”

“I see. I’ll have to meet with him, then,” Trystane said wearily. “Thank you, Hawke.”

There was suddenly an earnest expression to the champion’s eyes. “I’m doing this as much for myself as for you,” Hawke said. “Corypheus is my mistake.” His tone was heavy with regret. “This time, I’ll make sure he’s dead.”

Trystane nodded to him, somber, not quite knowing what to say. “I’ll have to take my leave, Hawke,” he said. “Let me or my staff know if you need anythin’.” Then he gave a pointed look to Varric. “Perhaps you should steer clear of Cassandra.”

Varric’s stomach tensed up anxiously; he knew from the Inquisitor’s tone that he had fucked up.

***

Later in the evening Trystane found himself in the training ground that had been set up in the shadow of the keep. Since the Inquisition’s forces began to expand with ever increasing speed, the demands of training their troops had grown tenfold; thus, a true training field had been constructed with a sparring ring, weapons racks, practice dummies, and more. When he was younger, Trystane might have never left it if he were honest; in his adolescence he delighted endlessly in sparring, always convinving some knight or other to teach him or have a match. As Inquisitor he had far less time to devote to his intense training regimen except for early in the morning and late in the evening.

It had been a busy day. After welcoming their new arcanist there had been a particularly lengthy war room meeting, during which they discussed plans to set up a forward operating base near Crestwood; Trystane would be leaving in just three days. Sometimes he wished that his people weren’t quite so efficient.

_His people_. Sometimes the thought made him a little sick with nerves, as it was now. But practice always cleared his head, and his clerical work was done for the evening, so he had changed into lighter clothing and headed for the training ground. Now he leaned his spear against a practice dummy while he stretched, bringing his foot back behind him and pulling it almost back to his shoulder, arching his back and holding the stretch as he breathed deeply; already he could feel his nerves melting.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person bend quite like that,” Hawke’s voice came from nearby, approaching the practice area. Trystane snapped his leg back down, flushing at the comment.

“I’m not quite sure how to respond to that,” he chuckled. “Is that a good or bad thing?”

Hawke looked like he was appraising Trystane. “For Cullen I’m sure it’s excellent,” he said after a slight pause.

“I don’t know what you’re implyin’,” Trystane sighed as he began to stretch his arms, suddenly self-conscious in the other man’s presence. If he weren’t currently in the process of trying to woo a certain blonde he might have been more welcoming to the man’s advances.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Hawke said. “I just came here to burn some energy before I retire for the night.”

“I-” Trystane was trying to figure out what to say when he was interrupted.

“Trys- Inquisitor! I thought I’d find you here,” Cullen, called as he came down from the direction of the keep. He stopped when he saw Hawke, blanching suddenly. Trystane didn’t miss the tension between them, almost anger. With a quick fade-step he was at the commander’s side, leaning on the slightly shorter man’s shoulder.

“What did you need, Cullen?” he was relieved to put himself between the two. He didn’t know what the history was between them, but he could sense bad blood.

“Oh, I-” Cullen began. “Was just looking for you, is all. Heard you had gone training. Sorry if I’m interrupting.” He moved to leave but Trystane grabbed him about the waist, not letting him move.

“No one said you were interrupting, lion,” he said in a low voice into Cullen’s ear. Cullen flushed bright red instantly – Trystane had to suppress a laugh.

“How interesting,” Hawke interjected, “that you seem to get on so well with mages, Cullen.”

“And why is that interesting? Because he was a templar?” Trystane asked.

“I see,” Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “You two must not have talked much about the commander’s time in Kirkwall.”

“I don’t pry,” Trystane almost growled, and he could feel the tension growing in Cullen’s muscles, could feel it where his arm lay across the man’s lower back. “But yet, Cullen has been good to _all_ the mages here.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” Hawke’s face was nonchalant but his tone was anything but. “I’d honestly thought Varric was spreading rumors when he said you two were a thing; I never would imagine Cullen would bed a mage.”

“Hawke, it’s really none of your business,” Cullen scowled.

“I’ll leave you to your practice,” Trystane said with a polite nod. “Come on Cullen, you needed something?” he quickly pivoted Cullen and began to steer him into the Keep. Cullen had a sudden knot forming in his throat.

Trystane didn’t say anything until he had successfully steered the blonde into Skyhold and up to his quarters, grateful that it was late enough for there to be relatively few people in the Great Hall. Dorian and Percival had been there with Varric, and the three had definitely whistled at them as they passed by; Trystane could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off of Cullen’s body.

“Trystane, is something wrong?” Cullen asked once they made it upstairs and Trystane reclined into a plush sofa upholstered in druffalo hide, setting his spear aside.

“I’m just curious what Hawke meant by all that, and I want you to tell me instead of him,” Trystane’s eyes were intense. “I have to admit, I’m not familiar much with the events of Kirkwall. I haven’t read the Tale of the Champion, unlike many. What I do know is that the mage rebellion began there.”

“It’s… a lot,” Cullen sighed. “Kirkwall was a mess. Fereldan refugees flooded the city in the wake of the Blight, the Qunari invaded, the tensions between the templars and mages exploded, violently. Hawke was there, fighting all of it and trying to maintain order. He saved the city a number of times.” Cullen looked incredibly nervous, and Trystane’s expression softened.

“Come here,” he said gently and motioned to the seat next to his. “I know the man you are. But I get the impression this is important.”

“It is,” Cullen sighed in defeat, setting heavily into the couch where Trystane instantly pulled him into the crook of his arm, Cullen leaning against the silver-haired man’s shoulder. “I should have told you by now. I didn’t want you to think less of me,” he said.

“Cullen, you know how I feel about you.” Trystane nuzzled against his blonde hair, kissing his head gently.

“That might change,” Cullen said. “I was the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall. Second to Meredith. At first, she was a reasonable woman if somewhat strict. I had had… a lot happen to me in Fereldan before I was transferred there; I thought her strict measures were warranted.” He took a deep breath, and Trystane noticed the slight shudder on the inhale. He almost wanted to tell Cullen to stop, that he didn’t need to dredge up these awful memories, but he knew it was important.

“You have to understand Kirkwall was a nest of vipers,” Cullen said. “There were confirmed accounts of apostacy every day, particularly in Darktown and among the refugees – many mages in hiding who feared Meredith. There were also multiple confirmed accounts of blood magic, maleficarum. With each fresh horror Meredith’s measure’s against the mage’s grew more strict. Soon she was abusing the mage’s – making them Tranquil over minor infractions, removing their freedoms, allowing brutal oversights on the part of the templars. I saw this, and I felt powerless to act.”

Trystane felt something unpleasant coiling in his thoughts but he tried not to react, only squeezing Cullen’s shoulder with the hand that was slung over his back reassuringly.

“I tried my best to be a buffer against her insanity, but the reality of it was that I could do very little,” Cullen said. “I still obeyed her orders, only speaking out in extreme cases, which grew in frequency. The other templars were on her side, she had whipped their suspicion of mages into a frenzy. If I wasn’t an acquaintance of Hawke’s I might have been caught up in it too. In the end, Meredith got her hands on red lyrium; she became drunk with power and ordered me to kill Hawke – only then did I turn on her. Her madness tore Kirkwall apart just as much as Anders’ did,” he leaned forward out of Trystane’s warmth, bracing his head in his hands with a heavy sigh. Trystane could hear him holding back tears.

“Cullen, shh, come here,” he said as he pulled Cullen back against him, encircling him in his arms. “Cullen, you did your best. Nobody came out of Kirkwall innocent, from what I’m told,” he said. “What matters is the man you are now.”

“Trystane, if you knew the abuses that went on in that Maker-forbidden circle, abuses I knew of and didn’t stop, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Yes I would,” Trystane’s voice was confident. “I know you. I _know_ the kind of man you are. I believe wholeheartedly that you did what you could, and the way you have treated the Inquisition mages convinces me of that even more. The way you’ve treated me.”

Cullen was crying now, quietly sobbing against Trystane’s chest. Trystane stroked the back of his head gently, threading his hands through Cullen’s hair and massaging in tight circular motions, the other arm holding Cullen about the warrior’s shoulders. They stayed that way a long time, Trystane quietly comforting him, occasionally speaking soothing reassurances into the man’s ear.

“Look at me,” he finally said gently and the blonde sat up slightly. “everything is all right. You have more than proven yourself, the kind of man you are, to me. I want you to know you can tell me anything,” Trystane’s voice was low and soft and warm, grey-green eyes meeting tired amber. He leaned forward and placed a kiss to the commander’s forehead, then another to his lips, a single loving kiss before he pulled away.

“I don’t deserve that,” Cullen’s voice was somewhat raw. “I don’t deserve you, Trys.”

“Rubbish,” Trystane chuckled. “Come on -  it’s getting late. Sleep here tonight.”

“I don’t understand how you could want me in your bed after that,” Cullen almost chuckled.

Trystane gave him a playful nudge and a look of mock offense. “Not like that, Cullen,” he said with a smirk. “I’m no’ beddin’ you til you’re properly courted,” he chuckled at Cullen’s scowl. “I just mean sleep here,” he said. “No sense sendin’ you to your quarters with your face all red. Varric will tell everyone that I broke your heart,” he teased as he got up from the sofa.

“That’s not what I-” Cullen protested. “And I’m not the one being courted here! How often must I repeat myself.” He practically grumbled.

“Well I’ve no’ seen you courting me yet, Commander,” Trystane teased as Cullen flushed. He stripped out of his tunic and undershirt, smirking to see that that effectively stopped the blonde from arguing; the flush he found on Cullen’s face made it even better.

“Maker you’re going to be the end of me,” Cullen growled as he watched the Inquisitor undress, slowly dropping his trousers to expose the tone lines of his buttocks and thighs against his entirely-too-tightly-fit smallclothes. The man stood before Cullen, entirely shameless and grinning mischievously from ear to ear.

“That would be unfortunate, you ‘aven’t even seen it all yet,” he said and watched Cullen swallow the excitement in his throat. Looking just a bit south he then saw how excited the commander truly was; the thoroughly embarrassed man crossed his legs as his entire face turned beet red, trying to hide his tented trousers. “Come on Cullen, is no’ like there’s anythin’ there I don’t like,” he chuckled and climbed into bed. “Get over here,” he said impatiently.

Cullen slowly undressed, nerves making it much more difficult to undo the buttons in his tunic and trousers – this had been so much easier in their tent in the Frostbacks when they had been so caught up in the relief of surviving that the thought to be embarrassed never crossed his mind. He folded his tunic and trousers, down to his undergarments himself, and set them on a nightstand. The commander caught Trystane staring at the shorter man’s significantly more pronounced musculature, his impressive chest and shoulders, torso tapering into a V at his waist set into powerful thighs. He flushed slightly under the Inquisitor’s scrutiny.

“What are ye waiting for?” Trystane chuckled, unbothered at having been caught staring. “Unless you’re trying to show off?” he quirked an eyebrow.

Cullen practically jumped into the bed at that. He wasn’t an unconfident man, but he wasn’t an exhibitionist either. Here in the broad bed in the style of the Free Marches, it was easier, particularly when a strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him close.

Soft lips found his – he had to ask Trevelyan how he kept his lips unchapped, he thought – and he was instantly drawn into the quiet sliding of lips to lips, the electricity of Trystane trapping his lower lip between his briefly, sucking on it and giving it a gentle nibble before releasing it. Cullen was painfully aware of his own arousal, and he was vaguely aware of how much pleasure it gave Trystane knowing that he was eliciting that response.

“Now let’s get some rest,” Trystane sighed against Cullen’s neck as he administered scattered kisses across the man’s jaw and down towards his collarbone. “Busy day tomorrow.”

Abruptly Trystane lay back against his cushions, holding Cullen to his chest and settling a comforter over them; Cullen was trying to figure out how he’d gotten there. Trevelyan’s thigh brushing up against his crotch as their legs intertwined was certainly not helping.

“You’re incorrigible… how am I to sleep now?” Cullen almost hissed, met with a low chuckle from the silver-haired man.

“Goodnight, Lion,” Trystane tactfully ignored the question and gave the blonde one more loving kiss before sliding into rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't lie when i said the angst in this fic is kept to a minimum lol. 
> 
> Comments and critiques are welcomed, encouraged even. I love talking to y'all. Thanks again for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition receives visitors that sets the entire keep into chaos. Cullen is acting strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all like this chapter, pls let me know what u think of the peeps being introduced. Thanks as always for reading!
> 
> On a side note, the new semester starts tomorrow so RIP me. Let's hope I can keep up with posting every day on top of all my other obligations.

Being in the undercroft of the keep was a little intimidating. Cullen hadn’t been here, except once in examining Skyhold’s facilities upon their arrival. It was completely different now that Harritt had set up, and even more so with Dagna’s thoroughly bizarre arcanist’s equipment dominating half of the huge space. In a way, the undercroft was a pleasant space; it was an enormous rectangular chamber, carved into the ride onto which Skyhold sat, and one end of it was completely open to the cold mountain air – this made it ideal for all of the smoke and heat that the forges produced. Harritt’s operation had expanded considerably. Rumor had it that the gruff blacksmith wasn’t used to working with so many apprentices, and that he had a tendency to still do most of the work himself.

Cullen was nervous for more than one reason. He had met Dagna once, officially, and had seen her in passing a handful of times – most often, the whip-smart dwarf was either in the undercroft or the librar, neither of which were exactly Cullen’s favorite haunts. Still, he had a project for her, and the fact that he had no idea how to go about even phrasing his questions wasn’t going to stop him.

“Commander! To what do I owe the pleasure today?” Dagna was a perpetual ray of sunshine – even if she was perhaps a little mad, and a little too fascinated with dangerous things – and Cullen found some of his nerves settling.

“I’ve,” Cullen wasn’t even sure how to begin, “Got a project for you, Dagna, very important, but it needs to remain a secret.”

“I’m intrigued already! What is this super-secret project?” She practically bounced on her heels. Cullen wished that perhaps she could lower her voice. He pulled out a scrap of parchment from his back pocket; he was no artist, but he figured some visual concept was necessary to show her what she wanted.

“Is this…?” Dagna’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got it, Commander! Let’s just step over to my workbench and hammer out some details!”

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief, the worst part being over, and followed the Arcanist deeper into the undercroft.

***

It was time for one of his increasingly-rare breaks, and he had decided to use Vivienne to leverage Josephine into taking a break with him. His plan had worked brilliantly, of course, and naturally Dorian had found out and joined them. This, in turn, ensured that Percival had found his way to the little gathering, and finally Leliana once she heard. Trystane hummed a little pleased note to himself as he sat back into an armchair in the library after having poured himself a glass of elderberry wine mixed with jasmine tea. The jasmine had been a gift from Iron Bull – it was exotic, a flower that was native to Qunandar, and it had rapidly become a favorite of the Inquisitor’s.

The others were sipping on either wine or tea, and gossiping. Dorian ensured that the conversation remained lively, and Trystane was only thankful that it was not focused on him for now. The Tevinter mage found to end to his pleasure in teasing Cullen and the Inquisitor about their de facto relationship, and how the two of them seemed to move things along at a snail’s pace.

Trystane wasn’t surprised that it didn’t last long.

“So, Inquisitor, word has it that yesterday our Commander spent the night in your chambers?” Leliana asked in her trademark innocent tone that almost inevitably concealed an ulterior motive.

Percival grinned from ear to ear. “Thas’ what I’m talking about brother! Go get ‘im.”

“Oh, I saw the Inquisitor leading Cullen to his quarters – a man on a _mission_ ,” Dorian chimed in salaciously.

Trystane took a sip from his tea as he brought his flush under control. “We had strategic planning to discuss,” he tried to deflect, knowing the excuse was pathetic.

“Oh? And why were your Spymaster and Ambassador included in this planning?” Josephine asked with a quirked brow.

“Our Inquisitor only likes strategic planning with men,” Dorian chuckled.

“Thas’ not in you tevinter bastard,” Trystane muttered. “It was about our troop movements near Crestwood, we already settled it in the war room and I just wanted to verify some things with our commander.”

“You must have been very thorough indeed,” Leliana suppressed her mischievous grin. Dorian didn’t, though, giving a bawdy laugh at that.

“Yet, between those two workaholics I imagine it was very thorough!” he said through choked laughter. Percival gave a naughty grin and clapped Dorian on the back, hard, as the man coughed, making him spill his tea onto his robes.

“You-“ Dorian began. “Your brother is insufferable, Inquisitor,” he said. “He seems to have something against my robes. He insists on ruining them.”

“Oh, and _I’m_ the daft one,” Trystane smiled. Percival put one enormous hand on Dorian’s head, ruffling the mage’s hair to his dismay. Dorian crossed his arms and huffed.

“I’m so pleased that the Inquisition is turning into a dating service,” Vivienne quipped. “But in all truth, my dear, the others are right. You two had better hurry things along.” Trystane practically gaped before remembering to reign in his expression, to the delight of the still-laughing and teetering Percival, Josephine and Leliana.

“Oh! Trys,” Percival interrupted, suddenly looking very sheepish as he rummaged around in a pouch at his belt. “I’ve something for you – I got it yesterday and forgot to tell you.” He withdrew a parchment tied with a leather cord – a letter, bearing the seal of House Trevelyan, recognizable even though Percival had already broken it.

“Maker, what is this,” Trystane said as he snatched it from his outstretched hand. He wrote to his parents regularly, so whatever Percival was showing him was bound to induce a headache.

_My dearest Percival,_

_Even though our requests have been met very thoroughly by your Madame Ambassador,_

_We still cannot feel at ease with this Inquisition business until we see you two for ourselves._

_We must admit that we’re very proud of you both, and we trust Trys of course, but your father_

_and I have decided that we are making the journey to Skyhold tomorrow. We are bringing_

_Saoirse and Brianna. Seth has opted to remain in Ostwick for now._

_When this letter finds you, we will have already been underway for three days, and will only require two more days of travel. We will see you soon._

_My dearest affections,_

_Ophelia Trevelyan_

“They’re coming _here_ and you didn’t tell me?” he said indignantly after a moment of expectant silence.

“Who is coming-” Josephine tried to ask but Percival interrupted.

“Ye were a bit busy yesterday, Brother! I forgot,” he said sheepishly. Given how tall and broad he was, the sight of him looking sheepish was ever comical.

“And they’re bringin’ Saoirse and Brianna too,” Trystane sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So if you get this yesterday, then they’re getting’ here today, you fuckin’ reprobate!”

“ _Ta langue_ ,” Vivienne reprimanded his swearing gently.

“Who is coming?” Josephine seemed to be getting stressed – Dorian and Leliana seemed more than a little amused.

“How in Blessed Andraste’s arse are we to get ready for them by – Maker knows when they’re getting’ here! You lout!” Trystane stood. “I need to speak with the head of staff. We need to get rooms ready – you know how she is…”

“Inquisitor, _please_ , who is coming?” Josephine was downright exasperated.

“Only our entire fuckin’ family,” Trystane snapped and ran a hand through his hair, practically pulling it in his exasperation. Josephine practically snapped to attention – the head of the Trevelyan clan was coming here, and that would be perhaps the most notable visit in the time to the Inquisition since its founding.

“Maker, I have to get to work,” she sighed. “How many are coming?”

Our ma and da, and our two sisters Saoirse and Brianna,” Percival said. “Our brother isn’t comin’ with us.”

“You mean there’s more of you?” Vivienne chuckled lightly. “This shall be quite amusing.”

“Viv, our mother’s a downright horror,” Trystane was clearly not amused. “We’ve got to practically renovate Skyhold by the time she gets here.”

“That weapon’ll have us drawn and quartered,” Percival sighed into his hand.

“It was a pleasure workin’ with you all,” Trystane bowed dramatically. “Now Josephine, come with me please, we have to get ready for this.” He swept out of the alcove, Ambassador in tow, followed a moment later by a still abashed Percival, leaving a somewhat stunned Leliana, Dorian and Vivienne.

“I suppose you’ll be meeting the parents now, Dorian,” Vivienne said with a smirk. “I do hope you’re ready.”

“I’m more concerned about Cullen,” Dorian scoffed, even though his stomach was doing uneasy flips at the idea of meeting the Trevelyans’ family.

“Oh, our dear Commander is going to implode. I must be there to watch,” Leliana laughed as she stood from her seat. “I suppose it’s time to get back to work. Excuse me.”

***

“Cullen, we have a probl-” the door crashed open as Trystane swept into the commander’s office, but the silver-haired windstorm stopped when he saw Cullen hunched over his desk, head in his hands. “Maker, Cullen are you alright?”

Cullen stood up quickly, straightening his posture and trying to wipe the pained expression off his eyes like he was standing to attention. “Inquisitor! Trys,” he said. With a bit of force magic the doors were shut and locked and Trystane strode directly into his space, hands reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Maker you look a mess, Cullen,” he said in his gently lilting tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a headache,” Cullen said and waved away Trystane’s hands, no matter how much he liked the feeling of them framing his jaw. “A bad one.”

“Do you need- I can see if some healing will help?” he offered.

“No,” Cullen’s immediate reaction was a little forceful, and he didn’t miss how Trystane’s eyes widened a little at the reaction. “No thank you,” he said quietly. “I will feel better shortly, I’m sure.”

Trystane was quiet but didn’t argue; he didn’t want to patronize the man. “Alright, Lion,” he said and pulled the commander into a hug, planting a kiss in the crook of his neck. “Tell me if you need anything.”

“Actually, it sounded like you needed something,” Cullen planted a kiss on Trevelyan’s cheek in return and stepped out of the embrace. “By the way you came in here.”

Instantly he saw near-panic returning to the usually unshakable man’s expression. “Right. Cullen, there’s a problem.” A knot began to form in Cullen’s stomach. “My family is coming. To skyhold. They’re going to be here today.”

Cullen cocked his head to the side, confused. “And that’s a problem because..?”

“Because,” Trystane’s eyes flashed with brief irritation as if it ought to be clear, and he raked his hands through his silver hair, causing it to fall in waves over the side of his face. “Firstly, Percival knew and didn’t tell me til today. Secondly, my ma is a damn weapon and nigh-impossible to please, and we’d need a week’s notice to get anything ready to her standards. Maker,” he took a deep breath and continued. “Third, Josephine says they’re the highest-ranking visitors the Inquisition has received yet, and Finally, and perhaps most importantly, they’re goin’ to want to meet you!”

Cullen’s jaw dropped. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was about to meet Trevelyan’s _family_. “Maker… what are you going to tell them? What do they know?”

“Oh, they know everythin’,” Trystane gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “I told Saoirse and Brianna all about ye.” If Cullen hadn’t been beginning to panic too, he would have found the flush on Trystane’s cheeks to be absolutely adorable. “Oh, she’s my eldest sister. Brianna’s comin’ too, she’s the next youngest after me. Seth’s not comin’ – be glad about that, he’s a downright arse.”

“You have a large family,” Cullen felt an unexpected fondness and a smile turning the corner of his mouth. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“You’ll take that back before too long,” Trystane said. “Maker. We have to find something suitable to wear tomorrow. And I’m leaving for Crestwood, tomorrow, too… you’ll be stranded here with ‘em. You poor thing,” he sighed and pulled Cullen into a tight embrace. “It was a pleasure knowin’ ye,” Trystane said dramatically, eliciting a chuckle from the commander.

“I can’t believe you’re more scared of your mother than you are of Corypheus,” Cullen laughed. “I might have to borrow something of yours. I don’t know if I have anything _nice_ enough.”

“We’re doomed,” Trystane’s mock lament rang out through the tower.

***

There was one loose end, one wild card, that absolutely had to be accounted for in the Trevelyans’ visit, and Trystane intended to tie it before things could get out of hand. That loose end came in the form of a certain straw-blonde elven rogue in her mustard-stained glory. For this reason, Trystane was headed up towards the second floor of the tavern towards the room where Sera had taken up residence – how she had convinced Josephine to pay for her extended stay there, he didn’t want to know.

“Sera!” he called as he approached the door.

“Lord Sparkles!” her thick Denerim accent came through the doorway and Trystane was glad he had arrived when he did. When he came in through the door he saw the blonde preparing a batch of what was probably stink bombs. “I know they’re your family ‘n all, but still nobles and I gotta knock ‘em down a peg,” she said cheerily. “And don’t you think about tellin’ me know or your arse is gonna get hit just as hard! Although with Ser Grooms-a-Lot around I suppose your arse is gettin’ hit pretty hard already!” She sniggered with delight at her own joke, her laughter intensifying at Trystane’s flush.

“Actually, I’ve come to make a deal with ye, ye blighted devil,” Trystane teased.

At that Sera perked up. “Business, right? Not so complicated. Knew you were a smart one, Inquisitor.” She set the little glass jars aside. “What can I do you for?”

“In exchange for _zero_ pranks on my family, and you wearing a stain-free outfit when they arrive,” Trystane began, noticing the wary look in her eyes, “I will give you a free pass to prank Cullen once, and Percival and Dorian twice. I’ll even help.”

At that, Sera’s eyes practically shone. “Throw in Josephina and Leliana, and it’s a deal, Lord Sparkles,” she said. Trystane hesitated – she knew that she had control of this negotiation. He couldn’t very well refuse from a place of weakness.

“Very well, Sera,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain, but I expect you to hold up your end. No pranks on my visiting family, and _no stains_.”

Sera snorted again, grinning like an imp. “You’ve got it, mister sparkly-butt,” she said. Trystane nodded to her, eyes still narrowed with suspicion. He didn’t trust her.

“I’ve got my eyes on you,” he made his suspicion clear as he left the room, not turning his back to the mischievous elf.

***

The Inquisition had prepared as well as they could, under the circumstances. Once Josephine and Trystane had sprung into action, the entire efficient machine of the Inquisition followed. The Great Hall was made immaculate, the gardens prepared, a suite in the floor directly underneath Trystane’s was made ready with surprising speed; those rooms hadn’t been touched in centuries, and in a matter of hours they were dusted and scrubbed, furnished and decorated as well as could be done with materials scrounged from the rest of the keep. The cooks were set to work for that evening, and Cullen had even come by Trystane’s quarters to allow the Inquisitor to put him in approximately thirty outfits before choosing one that looked smart on the blonde, without it being immediately apparent that Cullen was borrowing his clothes. Trystane was insistent that his mother would notice.

The Teyrn and Teyrna of Ostwick were known to be brutally intelligent; they were fair-minded but cunnig. They had to be, to navigate the politics of wealthy Ostwick. The power in the city was eternally torn between the nobility, who held political sway, and the wealthy merchant class, who held financial clout. The Teyrn was known across Thedas for how effectively he wielded his authority; everyone also knew that he was backed by the cunning of his wife, who consistently outmaneuvered the merchants and nobles who strove for ever-greater heights. Truth be told, the Trevelyans were a bulwark against chaos in the powerful Marcher city-state.

Their reputation preceded them, and put the entire Inquisition on edge, particularly Josephine. Now that all had been done that feasibly could be, and the Trevelyan sigil had been spotted on the road leading into the valley, Trystane and his ambassador waited at the gate alongside Percival and Dorian. Vivienne had also elected to meet the Trevelyans, having hosted Teyrna Trevelyan at a musical salon once, and ever eager to make political allies. Trystane had convinced Cullen that he could be spared the scrutiny of a first meeting for a little while, making the excuse that the commander had his duties to attend. They both knew that Cullen could only escape the eyes of the Teyrna for so long.

“Dear, please do try to relax, you’re white as snow,” the first enchanter remarked casually as the portcullis was drawn open – the Trevelyan party was at the far end of the drawbridge, glittering silver armor of their knights with the red, gold and blue of their sigil. Trystane was unsurprised that they had all elected to make the trip on horseback instead of by carriage; for nobles, they were surprisingly utilitarian in such matters.

“My ma is more intimidatin’ than a darkspawn magister,” Trystane muttered in response. Percival seconded that, and Dorian fidgeted with his robes, hair and mustache immaculately styled. Vivienne chuckled in response.

“As long as you’ve got things adequately in perspective,” she said lightly – a jest, coming from her.

Trumpets announced the arrival of the Trevelyans, and in a matter of a moment the Inquisitor’s clan came riding in surrounded by twelve knights in glittering steel. Brianna was the first to dismount; she was a short little thing, slight-framed and with bright red hair. She threw herself excitedly at Trystane and the off-guard Inquisitor barely caught her, rapping his arms around her.

“Baby brother! I’ve missed you so,” she said as she released him from the hug and Trystane leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She had a high-pitched voice like a clear bell, her speech like a lilting melody. Her presence always brightened Trystane’s heart. She was dressed in a light blue linen slip over a white chemise, padded in the Fereldan style and belted.

“I’ve missed ye too, Bri,” he said happily.

“Trys! Or is it Inquisitor now?” Behind her, Saoirse had just dismounted, and as Brianna moved to greet their eldest brother Saoirse moved in for a brief embrace. Saoirse was tall, only a couple inches shorter than Trystane, with long black silky hair and fair skin; she had a clasp of amethyst in her hair, the small gems clustered into the shape of a violet. She was dressed in a white tunic and doeskin breeches, belted with a purple sash. She had a deeper voice, a comforting alto, and grey eyes like her brother’s. She smirked as she stepped out of the embrace, looking throught he gathered party. “And where is this dreamy commander of yours?”

Trystane sputtered as Josephine placed a hand over her mouth to suppress her reaction, grateful that Dorian and Percival had their hands full with Brianna and hadn’t heard the remark. He should have known not to use the word ‘dreamy’ in correspondence with his sister – now it was to be used against him, evidently.

“Saoirse! Please leave off it in front of ma ‘n da,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased to see you, sister, I’ve missed you.”

“And I you, brother. We’ve all been worried sick about you two,” she replied. “Ah, you must be Ambassador Josephine – and Madame Vivienne! A pleasure. I was at your salon with my mother…” As Saoirse, ever the charmer, engaged the two in conversation, then drawing Percy and Dorian into it, Trystane’s mother and father finally dismounted and joined the group, Inquisition runners helping their knights to stable their horses.

“Ma, Da,” Trystane said as he approached them quickly, giving his mother a peck on the cheek and shaking his father’s hand, pulling him into a brief hug.  He motioned towards Josephine, who stepped forward eagerly to greet them. “Allow me to introduce my ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet, formerly of Antiva. Lady Montilyet, Teyrn Cormac Trevelyan and Teyrna Ophelia Trevelyan, my parents.” The Teyrn was tall, as tall as Percival, with grey hair and jet black peppered around the sides and was surprisingly fit for a noble man. The Teyrna was almost comically short next to her family of giants, only Brianna sharing her short stature; Seth did as well, but he wasn’t present. She had fiery red hair tied back and braided, the braids coiled into a high bun in the Fereldan style; before marrying her father she had been the daughter of the Teyrn of Alamar, and she had the porcelain skin and fiery red hair native to that region.

“My Lord and Lady Trevelyan, it is truly a pleasure to welcome you to Skyhold.”

“Thank you, Madame Ambassador,” Cormac’s voice was polite, even gently. Ophelia eyed the courtyard. What she lacked in height was more than compensated in confidence and poise.

“Yes, Ambassador, thank you. Trystane, this is the keep that I am to entrust your safety to?” She said critically, clearly eyeing the damaged section of the eastern ramparts.

“Ma, not now,” Trystane sighed. “Skyhold is an excellent fortress. But I’m sure you’re all tired from your travel.”

“Not so much that we can’t take a look around. Be a dear escort us, Trys,” Ophelia smiled. At that moment she noticed Madame Vivienne and moved to greet here, leaving Trystane with his father; Josephine excused herself, saying that she would let the family have some time together.

“Father,” Trystane said.

“Trystane, you’ve done quite well for yourself, I see,” Cormac noted. He was a serious man, always immaculate im posture and speech. It was a trait born of years of taming Ostwick’s nobility and wealthy.

“Yes, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Trystane sighed. “Quite unnerving, if you ask me.”

“Authority is never easy,” Cormac said. “If you were thrilled, I would be worried. But you’re doing good work, I hear. I can hardly believe some of the tales born of your recent exploits, most recently with this darkspawn monster.”

“That’s actually true, Da,” Trystane sighed. “It’s a lot.”

“See Trys,” Brianna was suddenly at his side, gripping his arm, and he saw his father quirk a slight grin. “Percival brought his new man to meet us, why isn’t yours here?”

“Yes. Why is that?” Ophelia asked. Trystane blanched slightly.

“Commander Cullen has got duties to attend to,” he said flimsily. “But he will be at dinner this evening. It’s possible we might run into him while I show you all around the keep.”

“Very well. And Percival,” she said, turning her gaze to her eldest son. “We are going to talk, later.” It was almost humorous to see such a tall, imposing warrior totally shrink under the gaze of such a small yet imperious woman.

“For now,” Trystane interjected – he knew that his mother wanted to speak with Percy on the subject of Dorian; as the eldest son, it was his duty to marry and produce an heir. “Let me show you all the keep. We’ve time to talk on other matters later.”

Percival shot him a grateful look as Trystane dragged his rather large family towards the upper courtyard, pointing out where everything was, Brianna latched onto Trys’ arm.

***

Cullen was late. Trystane was not pleased in the slightest – his family was putting him on edge with constant questioning, and recently they had sat down to eat in a dining chamber that had been prepared off the garden; they wanted a more private setting thant he Great Hall. A runner had been there, telling the Inquisitor that Cullen would be delayed by some urgent business, and Trystane had pocketed the note casually, forcing down his nerves and informing his family that Cullen was going to be somewhat late, but had urged them to start without him. If this was some cunning machination on the commander’s part, Trystane decided, he was going to pay for it. For now, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt. He was a workaholic, after all, and Trystane wouldn’t be surprised if he had lost track of time while he sorted through his various reports and missives and forgotten to prepare himself for dinner.

Not that it was an opportune time, either. Trystane felt very nervous, sitting at the head of the table. It was odd, considering that his father would be at the head in any other place other than Skyhold, but as the Inquisitor here he was. His parents took the two seats nearest him on the left side of the table, and on his right was an empty seat for Cullen. After that was Brianna and Saoirse, and opposite them Percivcal sat next to Ophelia. Dorian had elected to eat in the library, something which the Teyrna had noted.

He could feel this impending issue straining at what otherwise might have been a pleasant visit – he felt bad for Percival. As the youngest, Trystane really had no obligation to produce an heir, and so ever since he was a young man his parents had more or less acknowledged his preference for men with no issue. Percy was another matter entirely; they had argued on numerous occasions over his obligation to find a wife, and have children.

Trystane felt, and so did Percy, that Seth ought to take the Teyrnir after their father. Seth was already married with two sons, Shane and Corvis, and he had the better temperament to lead anyway.

At present the issue weighed over the table, keeping conversation to a polite minimum as the other Trevelyan children tried to divert their mother’s attention.

“I noticed you’ve got quite the rookery,” Saoirse said, trying to spark conversation. “Do you go hawking much, Trys?”

“Not here, no,” Trystane shook his head. He was good at hawking, but he hadn’t had the time in months. “Don’t have the time, an’ if I did, this valley’s no’ a good place for it.”

“Dear, do watch your enunciation,” his mother said. “You’re the Inquisitor now, you’ve got to speak far better than that.”

“I do, ma, just no’ with you all,” he chuckled. Finally the kitchen hands came in with their first course, and Antivan soup made with beef and chilis, a spicy dish well-suited to the cold of the Frostbacks. “I hate to tell you all this, but your visit has had some poor timin’. I’m set to leave for Crestwood tomorrow mornin’.”

“Whatever are you going to Crestwood for?” Ophelia said curiously. Brianna leaned in over the table, eager.

“Is this Inquisition business? Do tell!” she asked excitedly.

“It is. I’m meeting a… contact there about some strange things happening throughout Orlais and Fereldan,” he said.

“Rumor has it the Champion of Kirkwall is here,” Saoirse said. “Is that true?”

“If you ask me, that criminal ought to be brought to justice,” Cormac said. “Exacerbating the conflict in Kirkwall and then making off when it finally comes to a head. It’s a shame what happened with the Viscount.”

“Father, I doubt it’s that straightforward,” he said. “In any event, the Champion isn’t here; I don’ know where you heard such rubbish.”

Saoirse and Brianna sighed in mutual disappointment. Without staying deflated for too long, however, Brianna asked Trystane to tell them about his adventures with the Inquisition. With a smile, glad for a pleasant topic to pass the time, he launched into story-telling, beginning with waking up in the basement of Haven’s Chantry.

When the second course was served, Trystane was just finishing recounting the events in Redcliffe – he didn’t go into too much detail about his visions in the future, opting instead to give the glossed-over version of events that wasn’t so difficult to tell; his family didn’t press for those details. Saoirse knew already that it had been a difficult topic. Finally, however, the door at the far end of the chamber swung open and in swept Cullen, already flushed with embarrassment at his tardiness. Trystane stood, a knee-jerk reaction, and moved to get a chair for the blonde.

If he weren’t already irritated with Cullen over being late, his heart couldn’t have taken the site in front of him. Cullen’s hair was styled back immaculately, freshly cleaned. He was in a crisp white tunic with black pads at the shoulder, with black frog closures from the neck to the hem. He wore it over ivory-brown leather trousers, the only garment of his that Trystane had deemed suitable, belted with a wyvern-leather belt. Trystane knew that his family would recognize the belt, as Saoirse had gifted it to him, but it really was the only belt he owned that wasn’t a sash, and Cullen had refused to wear a sash. Cullen also wore a pair of Trystane’s high-topped black suede boots. He also wore a golden lion pin, something he had bought recently for Cullen from the merchant who had set up in Skyhold. He tried not to drool at the sight of the blonde, something that his sisters didn’t fail to notice with suppressed laughter.

He gestured to the seat he had pulled back for the commander. “Commander Cullen, let me introduce to you: Teyrn Cormac Trevelyan, my father, Teyrna Ophelia, my mother, and my sisters Saoirse and Brianna. Everyone, this is Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces.” He shot an almost-apologetic glance at Cullen for putting him on the spot.

“Cullen, we have heard _so_ much about you,” Saoirse said with a slight smirk.

“Oh, Trys, he is every bit as handsome as you said!” Brianna, unlike her sister, was never one for subtlety. Cullen gave him a wry glance, deflecting his embarrassment onto Trystane.

“You two are incorrigible,” their mother interrupted. “Commander, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Our son speaks quite highly of you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Teyrna,” Cullen said; he never quite knew how to properly address nobility. “And I assure you, your son is an excellent man. He’s doing excellent work,” he gave a fond smile to Trystane, who took it like a lifeline. It was safe to say that he had never brought a man to meet his family before.

“And we have heard excellent things of your work with the troops here, Ser,” his father interrupted – Trystane knew that he was about to pull Cullen into a conversation about politics, particularly about military policy and strategy. Cullen fell comfortably into it, comfortable in the topic, and Trystane breathed a sigh of relief as he found the two men got on rather well. Even his mother didn’t seem displeased with him yet.

He tried to ignore the searching glances from his sisters but eventually he was drawn into the game, sending ridiculous looks back and forth across the table while the Cormac and Cullen spoke about recent developments with Denerim’s army. Brianna was quite clearly taken with Cullen, sending Trystane appreciateive looks after appraising him, Saoirse silently admonishing the pair while they laughed quietly in response to each other; Cullen was utterly oblivious as he gave his opinion on Fereldan cavalray tactics, which made it all the better. Ophelia watched all this, and a gentle smile graced her normally harsh expression.

Before he knew it the last course was being served, and Orlesian dish composed of a chocolate mousse with a delicate raspberry cream – Trystane had heard that the cooks were pleased to flex their culinary muscles for this occasion, as recently they hadn’t had any occasion to make anything other than bulk dishes for the troops. This was going surprisingly well – Trystane was content to watch as Cullen charmed his family, falling even further as the man’s confidence grew, the lion even trading a few good-natured quips with his mother. More than once he caught sight of his sisters watching him, commenting to each other and laughing. They had always been the death of him.

“Exactly, my Lord, as I had been telling Trystane the other day-” Cullen’s sentenced was interrupted by a harsh intake of breath, a hand flying to his temple and he bent over. Trystane was out of seat in a moment, at the man’s side.

“Cullen! What’s wrong,” he said as he knelt by the blonde’s chair.

“Nothing, a headache…” Cullen responded with difficulty. “I will be alright, don’t mind me.”

“Nonsense. Come with me,” Trystane said and gripped his upper arm, prompting him to stand.

“Ma, Da, everyone, please excuse us.” Trystane said with a slightly apologetic look to his mother, but she nodded understandingly.

“We’ll speak later,” Cormac said. “I’ve brought you a bottle of proper Ostwicker wine.”

“Until later,” Trystane said, already leading Cullen out of the room, holding the door open for him and following him out.

***

Back in Trystane’s quarters, he led Cullen to his chaise lounge, practically ordering him to lay down. He then stripped off the man’s shoes and jacket, making him comfortable and propping a cushion under his neck.

“Cullen, are you ill?” he asked. “You had a headache earlier, too.”

“It’s nothing,” Cullen repeated. “You shouldn’t be leaving your family for this.”

Trystane silenced him with a quick kiss to his cheek. “My lion, your health is more important than a family supper,” he said with a slight grin. “If you want, I can try to heal-“

“No,” Cullen snapped. “I don’t want any magic on me.”

“It can help,” Trystane said. “I don’t understand why-“

“Just don’t use magic on me, okay? Leave it that?” Cullen said, wincing as he pressed his hands to his temples. Trystane drew back, not understanding the vehemence behind Cullen’s reaction.

“Very well,” he said. “Have it your way. I’ll get you some water.” As he got up, Cullen could have sworn he heard the Inquisitor mutter _stubborn arse_.

“I’m sorry, Trevelyan,” Cullen called after him. “I don’t mean to be short-”

“It’s fine,” Trystane cut him off from where he was pouring a glass. “I respect your wishes, Cullen.”

There was an awkward silence after that, the Inquisitor handing the glass to the commander wordlessly and then sitting back in a nearby recliner; Cullen could see Trystane was clearly hurt by his attitude.

“Trys…” he began.

Abruptly the silver-haired man got up. “Just get some rest,” he said. “I’ll handle any duties you have left. I’m going to go see my family before I retire.”

Cullen didn’t know what to say to that, so he watched the other man descend the stairs wordlessly, and suddenly his headache was only the second worst feeling he was experiencing.

***

The morning came far too quickly – Cullen had fallen asleep on the lounge, but as he drifted into wakefulness when the sun began to shine through the Inquisitor’s enormous balcony, that Trystane had moved him to the bed. The Inquisitor himself was already up; he could hear the man rustling around his closet, packing for the trip to Crestwood.

He sat up, swinging his legs out from underneath the blanket and over the edge of the wide bed. He noticed he was still mostly dressed, the Inquisitor clearly not wanting to encroach on his confidence by undressing him. _Maker, I was an ass,_ he thought.

“Trys,” he called to the closet, voice raw from sleep. There was no immediate answer, so he stood and paced over to it, seeing the man bent over a chest that he was trying unsuccessfully to shut; it was too full of his garments.

Feeling bold, he walked up behind the Inquisitor as the man stood, wrapping his arm around Trevelyan’s waist and hugging him from behind, kissing the back of the man’s neck.

“Feeling better?” Trystane asked quietly.

“Much,” he sighed. “About last night – I’m sorry. I was an ass, and after I was so late to meet your family. I hope you aren’t mad.”

“It’s fine, Cullen,” Trystane said stiffly. “I’m sure it was all a bit much to handle so soon.” He moved from Cullen’s grasp, finally giving up and using force magic to shove the chest closed and then locked. He picked it up and moved from the closet, Cullen following him into the bedchamber.

“Trys, please,” Cullen watched the man set the trunk with the couple others he was taking – full of herbs, papers, miscellaneous equipment. The man was not a light traveler. “This is the first time you’re leaving Skyhold since- since Haven,” he said quietly. “I’m worried already. I don’t want you to leave angry with me.”

Trystane’s shoulders relaxed, Cullen seeing from behind as the man’s posture softened.

“Very well, Lion,” he sighed and turned to walk back to Cullen. “I can’t say no to this face,” he said, cupping Cullen’s jaw with his hands as he did so and giving him a quick kiss.

In response Cullen gave a low growl, circling one muscled arm around Trystane’s hips and pulling him close, locking him into a deeper kiss, tongue tracing the inside of Trevelyan’s lips before pushing in, and he could feel Trystane’s body react and press against his own. The silver-haired man’s breath hitched as he was pinned in by the commander’s strength, Cullen being unusually bold in directing the passionate kiss.

When finally they did break away, Cullen continued to trail kisses down the man’s jaw, only stopping long enough to say “That’s much more like it,” in a low timbre, almost a growl.

“Maker, Cullen,” Trystane gasped as he felt teeth graze his neck and a hand pressing against his lower back, keeping him firmly in place against the commander’s body. “Why can’t I send Percival to go instead, or someone… I suddenly don’t want to leave.”

“Come back soon,” Cullen whispered as he drew back. “I’ll be waiting for you, love.”

Trystane touched his forehead to the other man’s, nuzzling his nose gently, hand cupping the back of Cullen’s neck softly. “I will come back as quick as I can. I miss you already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so curious to know you're thoughts on the Trevelyan clan. Comments and critiques are always super welcome. Thanks for reading! and thanks for those who comment! I love talking to y'all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane deals with the situation in Crestwood, which turns out to be more complex than a simple meeting with Hawke's Warden ally; meanwhile, drama unfolds at Skyhold. Cullen is ill-equipped to deal with any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your comments, they've made me so excited and re-energized for this! Your feedback has been so flattering!   
> I've officially done my first chapter since the start of the new semester, here's hoping I can keep it up!
> 
> Also, Crestwood has a lot of content. It'll be two, maybe three chapters til Trystane is done here and can head back to Skyhold

Crestwood was, in a word, depressing. They had arrived earlier that day – you couldn’t tell it was day, though, with the sky obscured incessantly by clouds. Constant rainfall had been their companion since they had neared the town and it didn’t seem to be showing signs of stopping anytime soon.

Trystane and his companions, Cole, Varric, Bull and Blackwall had gone to Crestwood to meet with the Warden contact only to find that the town was plagued by constant attacks by undead and demons pouring from a rift nearby. The only issue was that said rift was underwater, in the flooded ruins of Old Crestwood, under a lake. Suddenly Trystane was jealous of Percival, who was there entertaining their family until Trystane’s return. Cassandra wasn’t coming, given that she and Varric had recently had a _conflict_ at the smithy’s.

Harding had provided a very thorough report on the situation in Crestwood, per her usual, and the group had set off towards the village to find out if they could be of any assistance. Even if their mission was critical, the situation here was absolutely dire and none of the assembled from the Inquisition could justify leaving the townsfolk to their fate. On the way to the town they had encountered Wardens helping a village woman; they skirted around the topic of their business in Crestwood when they spoke to the two men after a skirmish with a handful of animated corpses. Even though they seemed to be good men, they had no way of knowing how extensive the Warden corruption ran until after their meeting with Stroud.

A little ways further up the road they came upon more demons, a handful of shades advancing on the gate to Crestwood. Two archers and one warrior stood against them alone. Trystane sprung into action without warning, fade-stepping into the middle of the cluster of demons and slashing into their sickly, unnatural bodies in a bright silver arc; from an outside perspective he was a saint in silver striking holy fury against the enemy of the people. Only Varric was able to provide any assistance in time before Trystane’s swift-striking spear felled the shades surrounding him, leaving a stunned group of Crestwood guardsmen to watch as his silver blade found its final target. Trystane had been itching for true combat, and it showed.

“Dammit boss! Leave some for me!” Iron Bull growled as he swung his axe just a bit too slow, his weapon biting into the soft earth where a shade had just collapsed into bubbling fade residue.

“He basks in the sudden safety of day; the light is silver, divine. A guardian, come to help us; dare we hope?” Cole asks as he appears at Trystane’s side. At that moment the warrior guard comes trotting up to them.

“Is it possible? Has the Inquisition come to help us?” his voice is anxious, so awe-struck by what he has just seen that he isn’t sure of himself.

“Yes, we’re here to help,” Trystane says. “We have business nearby, but when we saw the situation here we had to help. Is there anyone who would know how to get to the rift in the lake?”

“That’d be the Mayor, your Worship. Come with me an’ I’ll take you to him,” the man nodded, elated.

They were led through the town, a modest hamlet set into a hill. According to Harding, he recalled, the town had survived the Blight and a flood that had destroyed the entire city. He was pleased to see how much had been rebuilt, a testament to the resilience of Fereldans. The mayor’s house sat at the top of the hill overlooking the town; the guard knocked for them and announced them before bowing to the Inquisitor and returning to his post. The door was opened with haste, a flustered man appearing before them.

To say Mayor Gregory Dedrick had seen better days would be a vast understatement. As the man who had been mayor when the Blight struck and now this, he had seen his share of hardship. He wore the stress poorly, deep frown lines carved into his expression, bags under his eyes and his grey hair thinning.

“Inquisitor!” he gestured them in. “I’m sorry I can’t greet you more properly. These are trying times,” he sighed as he searched desperately for something to offer the silver-haired god before him.

Trystane raised a hand sheepishly; “It’s nothin’ to worry over, Mayor. I’m here to help with your undead problem. We need to know how to get to the rift in the lake.”

“We saw a dam on the way here,” Bull added. “Perhaps we could drain it? Is there a control somewhere?”

“I, uh,” he stuttered suddenly, blanching nervously; Trystane didn’t think anything of it. He was certain this was an anxiety-inducing horror for anyone to endure. “Is there any other way? A boat?”

“I have to get close to the rift to seal it,” the Inquisitor shook his head. “Is there a reason not to drain the dam?”

“Maker, he is so bright, his light will burn away the evil, but what will it expo-” Cole began in a quiet tone before Varric put an arm on the spirit’s, shushing him gently. Luckily it seemed that neither the Inquisitor nor the Mayor had noticed.

“No, if there is no other way, then I suppose it must happen,” Dedrick said with a shaky sigh. “Inquisitor; I would not linger there in that terrible ruin.” Trystane nodded. “And Inquisitor,” he added, “the control to the dam lies through Caer Bronach, a castle nearby that has fallen into the hands of bandits. I cannot ask you to face them for us.”

“Nonsense; we’ve faced worse odds and prevailed,” Trystane said confidently, beaming at the opportunity to help the village. “Thank you for letting us help you, Dedrick,” he said with a gentle grin. Then he turned and strode from the house, his companions following after him. The last was Cole, watching the mayor and contemplating if he could say anything to help; he decided to follow the Inquisitor.

***

The commander was cornered; there was no other way to put it. With the help of the ever-mischievous Sera the Inquisitor’s sisters had trapped him in his office and seemed determined to embarrass him. Already his face was flushed with embarrassment. He was trying to reign in his composure, but it was difficult in the face of such determined devils.

“Commander, it’s been two day’s and we’ve hardly seen you!” Brianna said with an exaggerated, hurt frown. “What are we to think when our brother’s lover ignores us?”

“T-the Inquisitor and I aren’t-” Cullen began, but he stopped, having no way to know how to navigate this conversation. Sera stood guard at the door, holding in her impish laughter with an iron will.

“You aren’t what? Should we tell brother that?” Saoirse said with a quirked brow. She may have the more serious demeanor, but she was every bit as evil as her sister. Cullen was perhaps even more scared of her.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of work to do!” he busied himself shuffling missives, illustrating that he indeed had a lot of work to do.

“Oh, this is almost _too easy_ ,” Brianna teased, shooting Sera a playful grin. Sera returned a beaming smile, and Cullen wondered if she was _blushing_.

“I see what’s going on here,” he suddenly saw an advantage to play. “You enjoy the young Lady Trevelyan’s company, Sera?”

“Shut it Ser Grooms-A-Lot,” Sera stuck her tongue out. “I’ve got an arrangement with Lord Sparkles!”

And arrangement? Cullen scowled. Was this _Trystane’s_ doing?

“Hey! Scamps! I know yer in there!” they were interrupted by loud banging and the sound of Percival’s voice from the other side of the door to the rotunda.

“Not a word,” Sera hissed to Cullen as she braced the door. The door rattled once as Percy shoved against it, stopping after a few seconds.

Suddenly they felt the tinge of electricity in the air and Sera leapt away from the door, sparks leaping from the metal knob to her backside; she yelped as she scampered away and the door flew open to reveal a cross Percival and amused Dorian. Their eldest brother’s arms were crossed firmly.

“Shame on the two of ye scamps, cornerin’ the man like tha’,” he said dramatically. “You two are comin’ with me.”

“Magic’s not fair Percy,” Brianna stuck her tongue out at her eldest brother. Soairse rolled her eyes.

“All we wanted is information, Percy,” Saoirse said as if she were perfectly innocent. “About Cullen’s intentions with our brother! I’m surprised you don’t want to know!”

“Oh I know alright, an’ I don’ want to hear what that man’s goin’ to be doin’ with our baby brother,” Percival said with a smirk, pulling the mischievous pair from the chairs they had commandeered.

“Perci- Maker,” Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose at the sudden onset of a migraine. “You Trevelyans are all evil, I swear.”

“I’m tellin’ Trys you said tha’,” Brianna taunted.

“He’ll agree with me,” Cullen chuckled.

“Now now, I suggest we leave the poor man alone before he combusts!” Dorian said dramatically. “Come Brianna, let’s torment Vivienne instead.”

“And don’ think we missed you, Sera you imp,” Percival said. “Come on!”

With a dramatic sigh the three girls followed them from the room, leaving the commander in stunned silence.

***

Caer Bronach was imposing, particularly so in this neverending downpour. Their scouts had suggested that the castle wasn’t well-manned, meaning that the front ramparts were probably unguarded. The huge oak gate of to the fort might once have proven a problem without siege equipment, but constant exposure to the elements had rotted the once-sturdy door. It ultimately proved to be no obstacle to the Iron Bull, who had collapsed the gate in a few strokes of his impressive axe; if he weren’t focused on the fight to come Trystane might have taken a moment to admire those enormous muscles rippling through the Qunari’s arms, shoulders and back as he hacked the gate to pieces.

The noise had attracted the bandits, of course. Just inside they found archers posted on top of a stable across the courtyard; bandits wielding crude swords, shields and daggers rushed them from a nearby stairwell that led to the level above the low courtyard. They were flanked by mabaris, vicious Fereldan war-hounds known for their tenacity and strength.

Immediately Trystane pulled at the archers with force magic; his magic was slightly too strong and it caused the roof of the stable to buckle as the archers flew from it with such force that they impacted against the stone wall opposite them, bones snapping with an awful wet sound as they crashed into it. Trystane winced, glad that at least their end had been swift. He was distracted, however. While it wasn’t unusual for him to misjudge the strength of force magic, what bothered him was that he felt no change in his mana pool. Such a strong wave of force should have drained his magic considerably.

He couldn’t focus on that, though. He threw a barrier over his companions as the bandits caught up to them, falling quickly to Iron Bull and Blackwall’s blades, Cole flitting unnervingly through their numbers and sliding a dagger through the gaps in their armor, rapidly incapacitating more than a few men. The mabaris went straight for Trystane, and he tried not to wince as he cut them down – he never could stand having to kill a mabari, even if it were attacking him.

The courtyard was cleared quickly and they moved up the stairs, silent in their determination. Trystane was glad none of the others seemed to have noticed his momentary lapse in concentration.

“The mark is different now; that’s why,” Cole said. “It’s… clearer now. More open. You are pulling directly from the Fade.”

“Cole,” Trystane practically skidded to a halt, catching the rogue by the arm. “Are you suggesting that I am pulling mana directly from the Fade? Not from my own body?”

“Yes,” Cole said. “The shape is different. It pulls at everything around it; it’s greedy. It isn’t mean, but it is different.”

“Cole, do you think I’m at risk?” he asked. Blackwall and Iron Bull suddenly seemed concerned.

“No. I think.” Cole looked like he was concentrating as he stared at the Anchor. “But we should ask Solas.”

“Great,” Iron Bull grumbled. “Why can’t any normal shit happen to you, boss?” Trystane shrugged sheepishly.

“The good news is, if Cole is right, I have an infinite pool of mana,” Trystane said. “That’s something even more potent than a Dreamer.”

“Maker,” Varric said. “As if you could be any more deadly.”

“We should continue this discussion later,” Blackwall said as more bandits came from a nearby tower. Trystane heard the hiss of an arrow and on instinct enveloped them all in a barrier; the arrow didn’t even reach Blackwall’s shoulder where it was destined. The barrier dampened its movement so much that it halted inches shy of the man, falling dumb to the ground.

“Well for now, I’m not complaining!” Varric said as he fired a bolt into the chest of a nearby bandit. Trystane fade-stepped towards his prey, arriving in their midst in an instant and striking with blinding fury. It was over quickly.

The path led through the middle courtyard to the tower where they had come and up a third flight of stairs to the upper courtyard; this one was elevated so that it overlooked the flooded lake. It seemed that this structure had once been much larger, and more than half of the upper level had long since collapsed, leaving this upper tier exposed to the relentless downpour.

It was obvious that the leaders of the bandits were up here. Their leader came towards the exposed floor from the opposite direction, from the ruins of an atrium chamber. He was reminiscent of the Hand of Korth, a hulking brute with a war-hammer flanked by swordsmen carrying tower shields. There were archers and a few other swordsmen scattered around the floor, and their equipment was clearly superior to the bandits they had fought so far.

Trystane took advantage of the collapsed section of the castle, reaching out with his magic and flinging a couple of archers from the edge, hard. Iron Bull, Cole and Blackwall engaged the closest bandits, Varric picking off a few from a distance. He could feel the anchor tingling, pins and needles flaring to life as if they were near a rift, and Trystane stopped to glance down at it in surprise. A bandit lunged at him and his reflexes kicked in, sidestepping away from an arcing blade.

“Trystane! Focus!” he heard Varric call to him. He whipped the blade around, bringing the weighted end of the spear into the flank of the bandit who had rushed him, sending him sprawling to the floor, and drove the blade into his chest with brutal efficiency.

The next thing he did was to act on instinct, advancing on the approaching bandit leader and his guards. The anchor was so active, he could feel it through his whole arm and extending into his chest. Without totally understanding what he was doing he _reached_ with the anchor, towards the hulking brute who stomped towards him, only ten or so yards away, and with no warning a rift flared to life above his head, rapidly pulling at the bandits with energy so intense that it reduced the men to Fade residue.

He froze, stunned. The mark seemed to have quieted itself now, but there was nothing left of the bandits that had stood underneath it. The courtyard was silent now – the few bandits that had stood before them had been cut down with merciless speed.

“Boss,” Bull said, and Trystane braced himself for angry. “That was _badass_!”

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Varric said. “But I fully reiterate what I said earlier – as if you could get any deadlier at this point…”

Blackwall and Cole didn’t say anything, the former because he had nothing to add, and it was his way not to waste breath on useless words. Cole didn’t say anything because he was intensely interested in the Anchor.

They continued to the atrium chamber from which the bandit leader had appeared and found it empty; they had cleared the fort. “Boss,” Bull said, “this could make a pretty well-positioned fort for the Inquisition. Would accommodate your growing army, too, and stabilize this region.”

Trystane thought on it, nerves pooling in his stomach. He had no way of understanding the political ramifications of this act; if it had been occupied by bandits, was it seen as an act of aggression to occupy the castle? Would Fereldan retaliate? At the same time, if they cared they would have driven away the bandits by now, surely.

He decided on instinct; Iron Bull was right, they needed space and facilities to accommodate their rapidly expanding forces, and this was well-situated on a trade route that Leliana could make good use of.

“Alright. Cole, can you go back to camp and tell Harding to come establish a camp here, and send a raven to Skyhold to request a force to garrison it?”

In a cloud of black mist, Cole was gone.

***

Cullen was surprised not to find Percival among those training the new recruits come morning; much like his younger brother, the Trevelyan warrior had become a fixture of the Inquisition military, frequently aiding in running drills and even organizing sparring schedules. Since Cullen’s duties swelled by the day Percival had become increasingly valuable in ensuring the quality of their soldiers’ training, and Cullen often met him on the grounds in the early morning.

In fact, he hadn’t seen Percival around much of anywhere. With a nagging instinct pulling him he moved back up the hill towards the keep, making his way to the rotunda. Perhaps Dorian would know.

“I… haven’t seen Percival today,” Dorian was decidedly muted, lacking his usual snark. When Cullen had asked him if he had seen Percival he had looked like he would be sick.

“Dorian,” Cullen’s voice was gentle. The tevinter man might grate on his nerves, but Cullen was growing fond of all of Trystane’s inner circle. “Did something happen?”

“I’d prefer not to speak on it. Ask him, if you find him,” Dorian huffed and re-opened his book, signaling Cullen to leave. “But I appreciate your concern. Good day, Commander.”

If Dorian didn’t know, there was one sure way to find out, and luckily he didn’t have to go far. He found Leliana in her usual haunt at the top of the rotunda, in the rookery.

She didn’t look surprised by his inquiry. “I was told that Percival went to his brother’s quarters,” she said warily. “It didn’t seem like he wanted to be followed.”

Now he truly was concerned. Thinking back on the past few days, there had been noticeable tension between Percival and his parents; it had been palpable during dinner on their first night here. He made his way hurriedly to the Inquisitor’s room. The commander practically jogged through the great hall, towards the corner door to the keep’s tower and up to the top floor. There was no response when he stopped to knock at the door. After a moment he opened the door, walking up the steps into Trystane’s room.

Percival was seated dejectedly in front of the fireplace, cross-legged on the stone floor in an undershirt and trousers. His back was turned to the commander.

“Dorian-” Percival turned, stopping with a choked sigh when he saw Cullen there instead. “Commander- do you need somethin’?” If it weren’t for the clear sobriety of the situation, Cullen could have laughed. Percival and Trystane had that in common – masking their pain as a reflex, seeking to help others to cover their own hurts.

“Percival, what’s going on,” he said as he moved closer to the fire, standing awkwardly. He wasn’t certain whether he should join the man on the floor or not – it would be difficult, in his light mail and fur mantle.

Cullen could tell that the man had been crying; his eyes were puffy and red, and his mane of black hair fell partially over his face, having clearly been undone by anxious hands.

“Had a talk with my parents,” Percy said shakily, taking a deep breath. “They were clear that my… _untoward_ relationship with Dorian wasn’t welcome. They intend to marry me off to some Antivan Lady. So I can become the Teyrn.” If he hadn’t spent his tears and his energy already, he would have cried again.

Cullen sighed, squatting down next to the man. Again, he thought that under different circumstances the sight of the unshakeable giant of a man in this position might have been comical. Instead he only felt a wrenching sensation in his gut. The Trevelyans didn’t approve of Dorian?

“I don’t understand,” Cullen said. “Dorian is a noble, the son of a magister, surely that’s just as suitable to someone of your rank-”

“Well if I could knock up Dorian, I’m sure it’d all be peachy,” Percival interrupted, more harshly than he perhaps intended.

“But they’ve made no objections to my.. relationship.. with Trys,” Cullen pointed out reluctantly. He really wasn’t certain what to say to help the man, but he wanted to try and understand.

Percival laughed wrily. “As the youngest, Trystane wasn’t looking at better than a marriage of alliance anyhow. By becomin’ the Inquisitor he’s already done his duty to the family, so to speak,” he sighed. Cullen was relieved that Percival didn’t sound bitter, only tired and hurt. At least he didn’t blame Trys.

“Percy, I-” Cullen said. “I’m sorry, Maker, I’m so bad at this. I’m sure Trys would know what to do.” There were a few awkward silent moments, and Cullen was almost afraid to continue. “What happened with Dorian then?”

Percy sniffed at that, rubbing the back of his sleeve across his face and collecting himself before answering. “He didn’ take the news of my engagement well,” he said with a wry chuckle. “Said tha’ if I was goin’ to bow to my parents’ on this, then I clearly didn’ love him,” he breathed a deep, choked sigh, suppressing tears. “Said he wants nothin’ to do with me.”

“Percy…” Maker, why did this have to be so hard? Cullen didn’t understand why this was necessary. He knew Trystane would be able to handle a situation like this. “I am so sorry. Don’t give up,” he said gently. “Nothing is set in stone, yet. I’m here for you if you need me, but.. perhaps you would prefer some solitude at the moment.”

“That would be preferable, Commander,” Percy said. After a moment, he heaved another deep sigh. “Sorry. I’m an arse. Thanks, Cullen.”

“Come see me if you need anything,” Cullen repeated as he stood. It felt wrong to leave the man to his sadness, but he also knew he couldn’t help this situation. _Trys will know what to do,_ he thought as he made his reluctant exit.

***

Cole had returned astonishingly fast – as a spirit, he was able to move at astounding speeds, to great advantage in situations like these. Now that he had returned they made their way through a service exit to the keep that led toward the dam; the control house to the floodgates sat halfway across it, doubling for a vacant inn. With all of the issues in Crestwood, there had been insufficient business to keep it open, it seemed. They were surprised to find two occupants however – two young lovers who were in the middle of certain _amorous activities_ when the Inquisitor and his team entered the pub.

“Don’t mind us, just passin’ through,” Trystane said cheekily as he passed the rutting couple, alerting them to their presence. The woman instantly squealed in embarrassment, pulling her discarded blouse over her chest in embarrassment and the man shouting “Inquisitor!” and tripping over his drawers in the attempt to pull his breeches up.

“Couldn’t resist a decrepit pub, eh?” Trystane smirked, deliberately oblivious to their embarrassment. “Don’ stop on our account, we’re jus’ openin the dam and we’ll be on our way.”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” the girl hissed at her lover who blanched at her tone. Trystane continued on past them, finding the room where the great winch to open the dam was housed. It was easily ten feet from the tip of one spindle to the opposite side and it took Trystane, Bull and Blackwall to turn it. They got it turned, however, and after a moment they were met with the sound of the rush of water under their feet. Trystane rushed from the inn excitedly to watch the floodgates open in sequence, releasing an unimaginable amount of water into the empty valley below – Trystane was glad there was nothing but a dried-up lake bed below the dam. It occurred to him that before the Blight, the area below them had probably been where the lake was. It was an intriguing thought.

It took a full day for the lake to drain to sufficient levels where they could approach the ruins of Old Crestwood, and as soon as they descended into the fetid basin Trystane decided they were spending as little time there as conceivable. Rot had pervaded everything, the water gradually destroying the wood of the houses, the fallen trees, and it now sat stagnant in the marshy soil. His boots sank with every step and it was an effort to remain upright without tumbling head-first into the disgusting mud. Poor Iron Bull as having the roughest time of it, his mass making it night impossible to walk through it.

There was a smaller rift nearby, hovering in an abandoned square where the ruins of a handful of hovels stood; it was sealed quickly before they moved on. The big one is deeper underground,” Trystane said. “Harding said there was an abandoned mine near the edge of the town. We should look for it.”

His companions agreed, and the made their way to the far end of Old Crestwood. The town was surprisingly well-preserved under the circumstances. A small few of the structures still had roofs, although by and large most of the houses had collapsed, but their walls remained somewhat standing. There was one notably intact house; a plaque above the door said it was the Mayor’s old home. Out of curiosity they decided to look inside.

“Boss, you’ll want to look at this,” Bull’s voice called from a desk nearby. He was holding a scrap of parchment, damp but having dried considerably. Stored in the desk, it had evidently been spared some of the damage it might have otherwise suffered. Trystane took it gingerly from Bull’s enormous fingers, scanning through it quickly – it was still legible. It was a journal, or a letter of confession before the Maker, perhaps. It was frustratingly sparse on details, only iterating multiple times Dedrick’s considerable guilt. For what, he couldn’t tell.

“Perhaps Dedrick can enlighten us,” Trystane said. He carefully folded the parchment and placed it in his pouch. “Let’s find that mine and get this over with.”

***

No one was expecting what they found underneath Crestwood. The mine extended deep underground, and there was evidence of people having lived in it before Crestwood was flooded. Dozens of corpses littered the caverns they traveled through, rotted carts and crates scattered throughout the grave yard. Nobody spoke. Even more surprising was what they uncovered as they delved still deeper into the mine - the ruins of a Dwarven thaig. Water had run through the stone over time, invading the stout Dwarven architecture with stalagtites and columns of sediment, but the structure was still sound. This wasn’t incredibly surprising. The Dwarves, their culture entirely subterranean, had once had cities in the far-flung corners of the Deep Roads, the natural system of caverns that connected all of Thedas. Their ancient thaigs, though lost to the first Blight, remained still, according to those few who had ventured into the Deep Roads and returned.

Trystane couldn’t help but marvel at the sight as they descended into the abandoned thaig, the lyrium-laced runes that lit all Dwarven structures still glowing a soft red. The ruins were surprisingly well-preserved, all things considered.

“I wonder why this isn’t flooded?” he wondered aloud.

“When the lake flooded, I imagine what water was here drained into deeper stretches of the Deep Roads,” Varric said.

Moving down the broad, ancient hall, Trystane felt his mark flare to life again – this time he was certain of the cause. The rift was nearby, and it was responding to the proximity of the anchor. Guided by the intensity of the sensation he led his companions to an adjacent chamber where they found the rift.

It was larger than most rifts they had encountered – this one had stretched across the central platform of the chamber they were in: it looked like it might have been a forum, or a meeting hall, consisting of a central flat area surrounded by what might have been seating. At their approach the rift destabilized, spilling demons forth from its jagged depths.

They were growing experienced with sealing rifts, however. It was almost always smarter to seal it immediately, without engaging the demons that seethed forth from it. Iron Bull and Blackwall guarded Trystane and Varric, and Cole flitted about the edges keeping the demons at bay. Trystane reached out, made the connection and couldn’t suppress the small whimper at the pain searing through his arm – it was impossible to become accustomed to it. It took a lot of energy to seal the rift, and Trystane was almost concerned that they wouldn’t be able to hold the demons at bay long enough for him to finish as he felt the anchor eating away at the edges of the rift, the tear in the Veil folding in on itself and disappearing finally. The demons, cut off from the Fade, collapsed en masse into bubbling pools of fade residue and green mist.

“That’s done,” Trystane sighed, exhausted. “Time to go find Hawke and this Warden.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are always welcome! Thank you all so much for reading. I love hearing from y'all, so don't hesitate to comment if u want! Big thanks again!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dealing with the submerged Rift, Trystane and co. meet with Hawke in an old smuggler's den, and then wrap up a couple loose ends in Crestwood. Cullen has an enlightening conversation with the Teyrna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying the story! I know the last one had a bit more drama in it than normal with Dorian and Percy but y'all don't worry about that.
> 
> Also, there is some NSFW content in the very last section of this chapter, skip over it if you want to!

“Inquisitor,” Hawke said as the Inquisition group approached the location that had been provided for them; it was an old smugglers’ cave set into the hills above Crestwood. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived. I only just got here myself.”

“Hawke, pleased to see you made it safely,” Trystane nodded to the champion. “Let’s head on in, shall we?” The warrior motioned for them to enter first, and so Trystane led the group into the cave. After traveling through a small tunnel lined with channels of water and clusters of deep mushroo, they came to a doorway marked by a skull with a red slash through the middle. Trystane wondered if it had anything to do with the red mark on Hawke’s face, but didn’t give it much thought. He pushed open the door, finding a large circular cavern.

Even though the cave showed plenty of signs of habitation – a cot, a table, some trunks and books – he didn’t immediately find anyone. He entered slowly, looking around with curiosity. “I don’t think-” he was interrupted by the sound of steel being drawn and on instinct he threw a barrier over himself as he whipped around to the source, spear at the ready.

“Stroud!” Hawke exclaimed as he entered the room, having ran inside at the sound of the sword being drawn. “It’s me. I’ve brought the Inquisitor.”

Stroud eyed Trystane with narrowed eyes for only a moment more before lowering his blade. He had a moustache to dwarf Dorian’s, if that could be possible, but no beard. He wore his brown hair close-cropped and he had handsome Orlesian features. He wasn’t tall or short, only three or so inches shorter than the Inquisitor. His physique, visibly toned even under his Warden armor, belied years of experience.

“Inquisitor. My apologies,” he was certainly Orlesian, based on his accent. “You have good reflexes.”

Trystane lowered his spear and barrier, nodding to the man. “You might ‘ave given me a run for my money, Ser Stroud,” he said with a friendly smile. He saw Stroud relax somewhat, releasing tension from his back and shoulders. “Let me introduce you to my team,” Trystane said as he gestured to his companions. “Varric, Iron Bull, Warden Blackwall, and Cole.”

“I am pleased that you have all come. My findings are… worrisome is to put it mildly,” Stroud said.

“Right,” Trystane got to business. “The Wardens are gone, and an ancient Darkspawn magister is on the loose. I can imagine that one’s got somethin’ to do with the other.”

“I fear you are correct, Inquisitor.” Stroud sighed. “When Hawke killed Corypheus, Weisshaupt was glad to put the matter to rest. Archdemons can survive wounds that seem fatal, however, and I feared that Corypheus might possess the same ability. So I began my investigation.” Stroud turned from them, pacing over to a table covered with a map and several books, leaning over it. “I uncovered clues, but no proof. And then every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“Maker, Stroud, can that be true?” Hawke seemed shocked – clearly he knew about whatever this Calling was. “You didn’t mention this before.”

“It is… a Warden matter, and intensely private. I was sworn to secrecy,” Stroud sighed.

“Can you tell me about what this Calling is?” Trystane asked. He didn’t like being out of the loop.

“The Calling tells a Warden that is time in this world draws to a close,” Stroud said. “Traditionally, this is when a Warden retreats to the Deep Roads to meet his fate.”

Hawke crossed his arms, leaning back as his gaze bored into Stroud’s back. “So every Warden in Orlais hear’s this right now? They think they’re dying?”

“I fear it is so,” the Warden turned back to them. This was clearly a painful topic, and Trystane imagined it took a Warden a lot of strength to turn to others on a matter so private. “I believe Corypheus has used his connection to the Blight to cause this, somehow. If all of the Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight? It is what we Wardens fear most.”

“So Corypheus is bluffing the Wardens with this Calling, and they’re falling for it?”

“Desperate people do desperate things,” Trystane said wearily. This was starting to sound like an apt follow-up to Redcliffe and Therinfal. “Is this Calling real, or is Corypheus mimicking it somehow?”

“There is no way to know, Your Worship,” Stroud said. “Practically nothing is known about the creature, or what is powers are. The important thing is that they believe it. Clarel has proposed a ritual – blood magic – to put an end to the Blights forever before all of the Wardens die. She thinks of it as the uiltimate sacrifice; when I protested the plan as madness, my fellow Wardens turned on me.”

The grizzled Warden veteran then turned back to the map: “Wardens are assembling here, in the Western Approach. An old Tevinter ritual tower. We must investigate immediately.”

“Of course, Warden Stroud,” Trystane said. “Thank you for this information. We’ll move on the Approach as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Your Worship,” Stroud said. “I will accompany Hawke and yourself for the time being, if that is alright. It becomes increasingly difficult to evade the efforts of my brethren to find me.”

***

Caer Bronach had been set up with the efficiency that was becoming the trademark of the Inquisition. The Inquisition’s advisors had sent a small force to hold it, and their Spymaster had evidently decided that because Crestwood was on the main road to Denerim it would be a valuable outpost for her agents.

In the time since the lake had been drained, the weather seemed to have cleared up and the region was finally getting some time in the sun to recover from the constant downpour; it was quite warm, actually, and their journey back to the castle was almost pleasant, save an encounter with a venatori scout; the scout was dispatched easily, but it put a bad taste in Trystane’s mouth to think that the Venatori might have a presence in the area.

By the time the Inquisitor returned to the keep, Hawke and Stroud in tow, the castle was practically abuzz with activity. At the center of this was Charter, the agent that Leliana had sent to manage Caer Bronach and oversee her network in the region. She was a slight elven woman, red hair pulled back into a bun and a thick Fereldan accent; she had been a city elf, then. She had piercing, intelligent eyes that were well-framed by her angular features.

“Inquisitor,” she said as his party came in through the service entry. “Pleased to finally meet you. Name’s Charter. One of Nightingale’s people.” Trystane supposed it was a force of habit for her agents not to use her real name.

“It’s a pleasure, Charter,” Trystane said with a friendly nod. “Are there any new developments in the region?”

“Since the weather’s cleared up and the undead dealt with, Harding’s people have had better access to the area. She reports that Crestwood is recovering, though they are mourning several deaths. There are two things, ser, that we should settle in the area before it can be considered stabilized.”

She had now led them into the open-air top level of the castle, where previously they had fought the bandit leader. It was totally unrecognizable, however. Merchants had set up stalls around the floor, brightly covered canvas casting welcome shade over the stone. A smithy could be heard on the middle tier of the keep, and there was a considerable hum of activity. Trystane felt a swell of pride to see firsthand the benefit of his efforts.

“And what is that?” Trytane asked. Given their earlier run-in with the Venatori scout, he had a foreboding feeling.

“Firstly, a high dragon seems to have taken up residence in the ruins of Wyvern’s Watch, and old Fereldan outpost,” Charter said. “It’s deterring traffic in the region and eating livestock. Something of a pest, really.”

“Wyvern’s Watch. How fitting,” Varric said with a chuckle.

“Boss,” Iron Bull was noticeably excited. “We’re gonna go fight it, right? Please say we’re fighting it!”

“I suppose we are, Bull,” Trystane tried not to sound too excited; it wouldn’t do for the Inquisitor to seem like a foolish boy obsessing over a dragon. “What was the other matter, Charter?”

“This is a slightly more aggressive issue,” Charter said. Her voice was more quiet now as she leaned in. “Harding reports a Red Templar camp in the ridges nearby. They have supposedly been growing Red Lyrium.”

At that, Trystane’s stomach fell. More than a dragon, more than the red templars themselves, red lyrium was a true menace. It was a blight on the world. “Right. That’s number one on the agenda, after we go speak with Dedrick,” he said. “Charter, where can I send a raven from?”

***

While in truth not much had changed in the time Trystane had been gone, Cullen felt like Skyhold was falling apart without the silver-haired man around. Percival and Dorian had been acting like kicked dogs lately, socializing with practically no one, performing what few duties were expected of them and then retreating into their quarters. Cullen felt like the entire situation was ridiculous – it was simultaneously wrong of Dorian to punish Percival for a situation in which he was as much a victim of circumstance, and wrong of Percival to make no attempt to mend the situation. At the same time, while Cullen had spent a little time with the Teyrn and Teyrna and liked them, generally, he didn’t understand why this drama was necessary in the first place. They had a son who had already married, and married well, and produced two sons. In that way the next generation of Trevelyans was already assured.

His symptoms had been getting worse, too. He was wracked with headaches daily, migraines that made him dizzy with pain in the most inconvenient of times. His body felt weak, and nightmares were robbing him of sleep. He had never fully appreciated the soothing presence of Trystane at his side; he wondered in passing if it was a side-effect of the man being a spirit healer that Cullen’s nightmare left him when they shared a bed. He sighed heavily, propping his head up with his hands, elbows planted on his desk, rubbing at his temples.

Cullen missed the man. He missed seeing Trevelyan at strategic meetings, he missed his presence on the training ground, and he missed spending time with the man, missed his gentle touch and loving eyes. In only a brief time he had grown quite accustomed to their growing relationship. But it didn’t help to make himself miserable by focusing on how much he missed Trystane. He sat back up and eyes the stack of documents in front of him wearily. He grabbed the top one and scanned it: a report from Crestwood on the newly arrived soldiers and a requisition for mining equipment. He signed it and set it into the small stack of invoices to the quartermaster.

A rap on the door snapped the commander out of his work after a few minutes; three succinct knocks, somehow managing to sound polite but insistent.

“Come in,” he tried not to snap.

The door swung open and the Teyrna entered. “Commander, I do hope I’m not intruding,” she said.

Cullen stood abruptly, giving the woman a short bow before moving to pull up a seat for her. “Not at all, Teyrna, please have a seat. Did you need something? Also, feel free to call me Cullen, madame.”

“That won’t be necessary, Cullen,” she smiled. “I was rather hoping to steal you away for a moment. My son tells us you’re quite the chess player. I thought you and I could play a round; we have hardly gotten the chance to see you since we got here.”

Cullen eyed the documents for a moment, not knowing if it was wise to abandon his work, but he was eager to be on the Teyrna’s good side. He might not be skilled when it came to managing a relationship, but he did know that being on the mother’s good side could hardly hurt. “I suppose I could steal a moment away from work,” he sighed, and was pleased to see Ophelia grin.

He led the way through the rotunda and into the garden, his favorite spot to play; there was a board set up there on most days in a little table next to the path that ran around the secluded courtyard. Trys loved it here, loved the smell of flowers and herbs and the quiet. Cullen had grown to love it as a result of that; the garden had all the things that he was coming to associate with the man.

“I don’t know if Trys got to tell you,” he said as he and the Teyrna sat down. “This is his favorite place in Skyhold. Well, the training grounds might be up there as well,” he chuckled. “A fascinating contradiction, isn’t it?”

“Trystane has always been that way,” Ophelia said with a fond smile. “I’m not surprised he likes it here. It reminds me of Ostwick, of the chantry garden. He used to spend a lot of time there. I wonder if he’s planned the garden this way on purpose.”

Cullen made a mental note to ask Trystane if that was true; the man had been quite involved in the restoration of Skyhold and all its amenities. “Ladies first,” he smiled and gestured for Ophelia to make the first move.

At first it had been his intention to take it easy on the Teyrna. He wasn’t a boastful man, but he knew he was a skilled chess player, and he didn’t want to sour the moment they were having by being a poor sport. He was pleasantly to find that it wasn’t necessary; the Teyrna lived up to her reputation for being quite cunning, and he found himself enthralled in the game. Trys was decent at chess but had never truly posed much of a challenge for the Commander. In a way, Cullen had been proud of that, like it verified his aptitude for strategy.

“Cullen, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” Ophelia sighed, leaning back in her chair. “This situation with Percival… it’s not something we take any joy in. Understand that we love our children, and we love who they love. In an ideal world we would let him do what he wants with whomever he wants, but that isn’t relity.”

Cullen felt a knot in his throat, and suddenly thought that perhaps he had been playing the wrong game this entire time. “It’s not my place to comment on your family’s affairs, madame,” he said neutrally.

“Come now,” Ophelia said with an eyebrow quirked. “As the man my son is courting, I think you are entitled to an opinion.”

Cullen thought for a moment, appraising the woman. He almost wanted to believe her, but he knew that with the nobility it was difficult to gauge what was earnest and what was a ploy.

The Teyrna chuckled, seeming to read his thoughts. “I’m not playing you, Cullen, I could do a much better job of it if I were,” she said.

“Then if I may be frank,” Cullen said carefully, “I don’t understand why Seth cannot inherit the Trevelyan holdings.

Ophelia sighed. “Seth absolutely can. And we had planned for him to, after he became married. But the situation is somewhat more complex than that, now. You see, an Antivan noble family with holdings in Ostwick has formed an alliance with a merchant organization. Together, they’ve cooked up a plot to severely undermine our power in the city – I won’t bore you with the details. The point is, they’ve leveraged this situation in order to coerce us to promise Percival to one of their daughters.” She was silent for a moment, thoughtful, but eventually continued. “We brought the matter to Percy the day after we arrived here. He made the decision on his own to marry the Antivan because at the end of the day, the Trevelyans hold the peace in Ostwick. If our family falls, the city falls. He’s doing this out of duty to his city.”

Cullen stared at the board, not sure what to think. He wondered how much of this information had been conveyed to Dorian. “Does Dorian understand why Percival is doing this? Because he seems to be under the impression that it’s because they’re both men,” Cullen said.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said sadly. “We don’t have any idea what Percival told him. Knowing Percival, he didn’t want to involve Dorian into a drama that is not his own.”

“I see,” Cullen said flatly. Then a thought came to him. “Ophelia, if this merchant organization were broken up, or the Antivan family undermined in some way, there would be no pressure for Percival to marry their daughter.”

“Yes, but we lack leverage over this particular organization. They have a lot of ties to outside endeavors, which makes our ability to put their power in check limited,” Ophelia said.

“Interesting,” Cullen said. “I wonder why so many foreign interests are suddenly invested in undermining the Trevelyan authority.”

Ophelia tilted her head thoughtfully. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound rather suspicious.”

_More than suspicious_ , Cullen thought. “Madame, I hate to cut our time short,” he said, “But I have something to attend. Please excuse me.” _Wonder what Leliana will make of this_.

***

The hills burned blue with veilfire.

The Inquisitor had been a veritable demon himself, coming to the Red Templar camp like a vengeful god. With the Anchor’s augmented to the Fade he was actually frightening to watch in battle, weaving barriers over his allies, spear flashing throughout the field of skirmish like arcing lightning, his fade-step carrying him to his next victim with untiring speed, veilfire engulfing those corrupted by the red. By the time all was said and done his companions could do little but watch as Trystane took down an entire camp of red templars and venatori almost-single-handedly. Stroud and Hawke were admittedly impressive warriors themselves but no one could keep up with the blinding speed of the Inquisitor’s onslaught.

“I’m starting to understand how you managed to survive Redcliffe and then Therinfal,” Hawke sounded amused when Trystane had finally rejoined them. “I almost feel sorry for the Venatori.”

In response, Trystane sank to the ground in exhaustion. “I need a moment,” he said. “Sorry, I just – after what I’ve seen, both in Redcliffe and Therinfal, the sight of red lyrium does something to me. I become so incomprehensibly angry, I-”

“I understand,” Hawke knelt by the Inquisitor, handing him a flagon of water. “I… saw a lot of blood magic in Kirkwall. I think it makes me feel much the same way.”

Trystane looked to Hawke’s face, his expression understanding and distantly pained. He had been wary to really get to know the man, given the way Hawke had treated Cullen originally. Perhaps he had judged him too harshly.

“Thank you,” Trystane said. He tried to stand, wincing at a sharp pain in his side: a shallow cut from a venatori dagger. “I didn’t even notice this,” he said, He placed a palm over his side and that golden light filled the space beneath it. He could feel the magic at work, warmth spreading throughout his side. It almost made him numb as the flesh and muscle were knit back together.

“You are quite impressive, Inquisitor,” Hawke mused. Trystane turned to see the man almost appraising him from head to toe. He laughed, somewhat awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

“Can’t go into a fight with a dragon while I’m already injured,” he deflected the compliment, and Hawke smirked in response.

Wyvern’s Watch was nearby, relatively speaking. It was about an hour’s hike down out of the hills and into a shallow basin; they could see the ruins clearly from quite a way’s away. They could also see the high dragon from that distance, impossibly large. Trystane had always dreamed of fighting a dragon – as a young warrior a battle with a High Dragon was the thing of legends, the subject of tales that his father and his older brothers, the knights around the keep, they all told him. He had been fascinated by them for years as a result; he had studied Pentaghast dragon fighting manuals and devoted countless hours to thinking on the strategy he would use when he fought one. Even though dragons had recently been thought to be extinct, there had been numerous sightings in the last few years scattered around Thedas.

The Iron Bull evidently shared his enthusiasm, albeit from a different perspective. They talked about it at length while they trekked out to the ruin, in addition to discussing strategy, the dragon’s weak points, and generally informed the rest of the group about how to fight it. Iron Bull told them about the Qunari perspective on dragons, about how they revered them. It wasn’t similar at all to how the Ancient Imperium worshipped dragons, but Qunari felt a special kinship with them and held them in the utmost extreme; at the same time the Qunari impetus to tame the chaos and bring order drove them to slaying dragons.

Once they got near the dragon Trystane had already put a barrier over his companions, which was good because a ball of white-hot arcing electricity was flung at them almost immediately after. Aided by his increased connection to the Fade the barrier held, diffusing the dragon’s electric breath. Up close Trystane’s breath was almost taken away by the sight of the beast. Its size could not be understated, a single wing easily able to eclipse their entire group. Its head was the size of the Iron Bull and some, with horns extending from the back of its skull and curling back on themselves to point towards its front. The most incredible thing was its coloration – it sparkled gold and irisescent in the sun, the light capturing all the facets of its scales and bringing out a slight purple tone; its head was tinted with purple, darkening towards the tips of the horns.

Once they had closed in on the ruin the dragon let out an ear-splitting roar, multi-toned in its depth with a higher pitch that rang out across the valley; it took off from its perch on top of the ruin, its wings creating a strong draft underneath it as it propelled its immensity into the sky. Circling the ruin once, it launched another ball of arcing plasma at them and Trystane caught it in the barrier, diffusing the electricity again. He was glad the dragon didn’t fire these in rapid succession, because it was taking considerable mana to replenish the barrier, even with the anchor’s connection to the fade.

Finally the dragon landed in a clearing surrounded by clusters of broken pillars and ruins, bellowing one more time and watching the party of comically small fighters advance on it. Varric circled wide, seeking cover from which to provide ongoing ranged support, while the others moved in close; Trystane kept a close eye on his companions, using bursts of healing magic to rejuvenate their tired muscles, sympathetic magic to imbue them with speed and strength. As they closed the distance the dragon reared its head back to bellow lightning at them. The Inquisitor saw it and threw a wave of force magic at it, catching it under the jaw and throwing its head into the air, arcing electricity spewing into the air above it.

“Nice one, Boss!” Iron Bull as he reached the dragon’s underside first, swinging his axe with force into the dragon’s foot. It bit into the flesh but not deeply, the scales having taken most of the force of the attack. The others likewise attacked at the exposed parts of the dragon whether than be its feet, tail, or the underside of its belly whenever it dropped within reach.

Trystane had a plan to set in motion, and it required them to keep the dragon distracted and in the same spot long enough for him to enact it. He fade-stepped away from the dragon, conjuring a ball of veilfire and pressing his flame-cloaked hand into a stone pillar. Looking to his team they were already having difficulty, the dragon trying to bite at the Iron Bulle only to be swatted at with the great axe. He moved on quickly between six locations scattered around the dragon, praying to the Maker that the beast didn’t move.

Fighting it as they were was time-consuming and risky; even with his healing magic and sympathetic magic they couldn’t fight tirelessly forever, and a high dragon was notoriously slow to tire into defeat. He heard on the periphery of his awareness Varric cursing as the dragon’s tail whipped around and struck the stone above him, sending rubble falling towards him. Luckily the barrier held, diffusing the impact of the falling rocks just long enough for him to fling himself clear.

The dragon kept shifting, making it difficult to get the locations just right, but eventually Trystane managed it: a ring of glyphs around the field of battle, burning veilfire white against the daylight.

“Everyone get clear!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking slightly with the force of his shout; everyone stopped what they were doing and the dragon, thinking that it had gained the advantage, prepared for a breath attack. Trystane disrupted it again, sending showers of sparks into the air and the dragon growled in anger and turned its eye on him. _Now for the tricky part_ , he thought, and readied his spear. He fade-stepped in close, slashing at a leg with the spear that blazed with brilliant veilfire; the veilfire clung to the dragon’s leg and two of the nearby glyphs activated, connecting to the slash in a chain made from silver magic. Not wasting time Trystane fade-stepped again, the constant stress of the technique punishing his body, to another leg. Again a nearbu glyph flared to life and chained itself to the dragon’s leg. The dragon roared and tried to back away but the veilfire seared into its legs, the cursed chains using the dragon’s strength to amplify their own power.

He repeated the technique with the last two legs and the tail, rendering the dragon almost immobilized; its head thrashed wildly as Trystane now approached it carefully. He was careful to maintain a constant barrier. He knew the amount of magic he was drawing from the Fade was going to exact a toll on his body later, but where a dragon was concerned he couldn’t afford to be conservative. Lightning flooded over the barrier, affirming his decision.

Finally his opportunity came as the dragon’s neck finally began to tire from straining against the magic that bound it and it came within reach of the spear. Cloaking his blade in veilfire once again he struck forth in a flash of silver, creating one final flaming mark along the underside of the beast’s neck. The final two glyphs connected to the dragon’s neck, forming another ethereal flaming chain and dragging the dragon’s head down to the ground. Enraged the dragon spat forth one more bout of lightning, its furious cries echoing throughout the valley and well beyond. Trystane tried to ignore the twisting knot at the sight of such a majestic beast brought so low as he approached it spear in hand, ready to deliver a killing blow. There was a soft spot on the flat part at the top of a dragon’s skull; it was cited in the Pentaghast tomes he had read when he was young. Face set into a fearsome grimace he struck a clean blow through the soft tissue and into the dragon’s skull. Within moments the great beast was stilled, blackish red blood flowing from the wound in its head.

Trystane withdrew the spear and the chains dissipated once he ceased to supply them with lyrium, the barriers over his companions dissipating into thin air, and he collapsed heavily to his knees as his exertions caught up to him. Hawke raced to him, bracing Trystane under his left arm and helping the man to stand.

“Inquisitor that was…” Hawke said softly, “Incredible.”

“ _Boss_ ,” Bull said as he caught up. “That was fucking awesome, boss. That was the best fight I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”

Trystane staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff and taking a few steps away from Hawke. “Sorry everyone, I may ‘ave done a bit much there,” he said shakily. He couldn’t heal himself because he wasn’t wounded – his body was exhausted from the sheer volume of mana that he had just channeled. “I need to get back to camp and lie down awhile ‘fore I can continue to Caer Bronach,” he said sheepishly.

“Silver, you just took down a dragon almost entirely on your own. Of course you can rest,” Varric chuckled.

***

“Cullen, I want you to touch me,” Trystane’s voice was deep and low, eliciting a shiver that ran down Cullen’s spine directly to his aching groin. He was only too happy to oblige, pressing the man against the cold stone wall and feeling for the fastenings to his tunic. A low growl escaped his lips when Trystane’s mouth latched onto his neck, teeth grazing his sensitive skin. It had been far too long.

“I- fuck, Trys,” Cullen hissed; he knew that was going to leave a mark but he didn’t care. He practically ripped the Inquisitor’s tunic off and pulled the man’s undershirt up over his arms hastily, revealing the beautifully smooth, fair skin of his chest and stomach; he was muscular and lithe, muscles standing out against his minimum of fat, dark hair dusting his chest and outlining a trail down to his trousers…

He moved down the silver-haired man’s neck, pressing hasty kisses as he went until he made his way down to the man’s chest. His hands reached round either side of the other man and pinned his arms to the wall as he issued his affection to one soft pink nub, licking it and grazing it with his teeth until it stiffened. Trystane moaned against the sensation, arching his back against the wall when Cullen wrapped his lips around it and bit lightly, sucking and licking with his tongue before moving to give the other nipple the same ministrations.

 He released one of Trystane’s arms only to palm at the man’s tented trousers, feeling Trystane’s hips buck ever so slightly at the sudden friction. “Maker, Cullen…” Trystane sighed and suddenly he felt Trystane’s arms around his hips, lifting him with ease and tossing him onto the bed – it was easy to forget how _strong_ the man was. Trystane made swift work of Cullen’s trousers, yanking them down to his ankles and then pulling them off while he licked at the inside of Cullen’s thighs, the cool wet sensation doing absolutely nothing to fend off the heat pooling in his stomach. Before he knew it Trystane was kneeling at the edge of the bed as he took Cullen’s cock in his hand, feeling it fully harden while he teased the tip with his thumb and Cullen gripped the linens tightly in his fists, growling against the friction; Trystane was teasing him, and he knew it-

Cullen woke with a start,  feeling a sudden warmth spreading in his smallclothes. He groaned in embarrassment, although there was no one to see it, and stepped out of bed to change. At least this kind of dream was preferable to his usual ones.

_Maker, I need him back here,_ he thought wistfully as he crawled back into his bed and tried again to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even Cullen's dreams are a tease, damn. I hope you all enjoyed, feel free to comment or leave a critique! Constructive criticism is welcome. I just love hearing from y'all, and thank you for reading!!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane and co. return to Skyhold; there is business to attend, but there's really only one thing on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry there was no chapter yesterday (technically the day before yesterday since I'm finishing this chapter at 1:30am but whatever), I was sick so I didn't write a chapter wednesday. It gone done late today bc I'm still a lil sick, but also very busy. No worries tho, there will be another chapter for today still. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you're enjoying it! Be advised that the last section of this chapter contains NSFW content. This chapter also has some tooth-rotting fluff, so there you go.

With a few hours rest Trystane’s body was able to recover from its exertions, at least enough for travel. The plan was to pass through Caer Bronach long enough to pass along news of their actions to Charter and then move on to Crestwood to speak with Dedrick. Trystane suspected Charter already knew what whad transpired, but he also wanted to arrange with her for someone to claim the leather and bones off the felled dragon; if they were going to kill it, they could at least use it.

Caer Bronach was quickly turning into a veritable hub, and trade was starting to flow between it and Crestwood as well as merchants who had learned the road to Denerim was safe to travel; Trystane was certain it was Charter’s doing that word had spread so quickly. When they arrived, his companions went straight to the pub on the damn that had been re-opened in the wake of the Inquisition’s arrival. The Inquisitor went directly to find Charter.

“Greetin’ to you Charter,” he said cheerily as he strode up to her. “I’m sure you know, but I thought I’d let you know. The dragon is slain, and the red templars cleared out. I have a report I found on one of them about their efforts in establishing mining operations,” as he spoke he fished the parchment out of his satchel and gave it to her.

“Thank you, Your Worship,” she said with a pleased grin and took it. “That’ll be useful.”

“Oh, and I’d like for someone to see about processing the dragon’s hide ‘n such,” Trystane said. “Would be a shame for such a rare thing to die for nothin’.”

“A crew was dispatched a few hours ago, Inquisitor,” Charter nodded. Then, after glancing around her she leaned in close to the silver-haired man. “I have a message for you to take to Sister Nightingale; Butcher is dead. It appears we have a traitor.”

Trystane’s grin disappeared. “Very well,” he said in a low tone. “But why am I delivering this?”

“Can’t risk sending a raven, when I don’t know who the leak is,” Charter replied. “I know for certain you’re reliable though, you sort of have to be.” Trystane nodded; it made sense. That didn’t mean he was pleased to be the messenger.

“I’ll make certain Sister Nightingale knows,” he said.

After receiving a few reports from the Captain that Cullen had stationed here to over see their troops and dealing with them, Trysane made his way to the tavern. Even though he could go for some ale at the moment, he just wanted to talk to Dedrick and then go home.

_Home_. He found himself thinking of Skyhold as home in increasing measure recently. It really was incredible what they had managed to do with the space in a short time; he could only wonder what improvements might have been completed by the time he returned. He hoped Cullen’s tower would be fixed, at least. His quarters, situated above his office, was missing half of its roof. Cullen had objected to fixing it, saying that there were other things to spend resources on. Trystane had argued that, even if Cullen wasn’t exactly spending his nights there, it wouldn’t do to have the Commander’s quarters in disrepair. He chuckled to himself at the man’s stubborn nature. Just thinking about the man made his heart ache in his chest for longing.

_I’ll have to properly court him soon_ , he thought. _I can’t take this waiting game for much longer_. More often then not, he found his spare moments occupied with thoughts of the commander, often in increasingly _compromising_ positions.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts; he didn’t want to let his body begin to react to the images his mind was conjuring. Besides, he still had to get his team and leave for Crestwood.

Hawke and Varric had wasted no time in drinking, along with Iron Bull. Stroud and Blackwall sat nearby, but didn’t drink. Cole was nowhere nearby, but he was certain the spirit was able to keep tabs on them.

“Inquisitor!” Iron Bull exclaimed. “To slaying a _fucking dragon_ like warriors of legend!” Trystane could smell his breath from a yard away; whatever he was drinking was more of a weapon than a beverage.

“Bull, whatever that is, it smells like a fuckin’ weapon,” he taunted. “But yeah, that was exhilaratin’, wasn’t it?”

“Have a drink with us, Inquisitor,” Varric urged. “It’s not every day you kill a High Dragon. Well, it’s not every day you watch the Inquisitor kill a High Dragon.” He chuckled and sipped at his ale. The Iron Bull protested sloppily that he had helped, thank you very much. This was received with some smirks and laughter from Hawke and Varric.

“I’ll ‘ave one drink,” Trystane said, “But no’ whatever that swill is,” he said with a chuckle. “Then we’re headin’ for Crestwood. I want to get back to Skyhold as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you really miss your _strategy sessions_ with Cullen,” Iron Bull’s voice was slightly slurred.

Varric scoffed. “I think we’re past pretending they’re just meetings, Bull.”

“Cullen’s a lucky man, he-” Hawke stopped short and let the rest of whatever he was saying drop off into silence. Trystane glazed over that comment, diverting the subject by motioning to the barkeep for a glass of whiskey.

They finished their drinks relatively quickly after that, The Iron Bull downing his cup in one swig; even the smell of the stuff was enough to practically singe Trystane’s nostrils. He held it surprisingly well though, getting up from the bar on his own and managing to make it out of the pub without falling, which the Inquisitor had thought would be a concern. Now, he figured the travel would help the qunari to burn some of the alcohol from his system. They made the walk to Caer Bronach’s stables, getting their mounts from a stablehand there and riding for Crestwood.

On horseback the journey was only a half hour, a significant improvement from the past couple days of making their way all around the hills of Crestwood on foot. They arrived to a surprising amount of fanfare, villagers lining the dirt paths through the village to shout their gratitude and praiase as they passed. Trystane’s chest swelled with pride to see the good they were doing. It made all of their efforts so worth it to see the change in the village. Whereas when they arrived everyone had been huddled into their huts in fear, now children were playing outside, the market was full, and the people’s spirits were higher than they had been in a long while.

They were surprised to find that the Mayor hadn’t left his house yet to greet them as they made their way closer to it. Ascending the hill towards Dedrick’s home they overheard confused chatter from two men outside the door; apparently the Mayor was gone, and hadn’t told anyone.

Trystane tried the door, finding it unlocked, and strode into the dark house. It had been left in a rush, many things left behind. It was evident he had only intended to take the essentials. “Search the house,” he said to his companions. “Maybe we can see why he left in such a hurry.”

“Greasy, slippery fear, pooling in the gut and making me sick. I cannot face this,” Cole said quietly as he examined the room.

A quizzical look was shot his way. “Do you mean Dedrick?” Trystane asked Cole, who nodded. “What can’t he face?”

At that moment Blackwall called from the desk. “I’ve found something you’ll want to read,” he said curtly and thrust a small leaflet towards him. Trystane took it gingerly and turned it over to examine it, his stomach sinking pitifully.

“It’s… a letter of confession,” he said flatly to the waiting companions. “Apparently he is the one who flooded Old Crestwood, years ago, after the blight had infected many of the townspeople. He shepherded the infected into the old mine and then moved everyone else uphill, killing all the infected when the dam was released.”

Hawke’s face was set in a grim line. “Desperate people do desperate things, indeed,” he spat.

Pocketing the letter with a deep sigh. “Cole, please go tell Charter to have Dedrick found and brought to Skyhold for judgement.” Cole disappeared, wordless. “Let’s go,” he addressed everyone else. “Cole can find me pretty easily.”

***

Cullen, Leliana and Josephine sat around the war table, working on individual reports in comfortable silence. Only the scratch of quill on parchment and the occasional shuffling of fabric broke the silence, until Leliana looked up from a missive she was reading with an interested expression.

“It seems our Inquisitor has slain a High Dragon that was blocking the road through Crestwood,” she said. Cullen looked up in surprise.

“Come again?” he wasn’t sure he heard her properly. “Trys killed a High Dragon?” Leliana nodded. Cullen’s lips lifted into a grin and he felt his chest swell with pride. He really was amazing.

Leliana chuckled lightly. “And here I thought you couldn’t look any more smitted, Cullen,” she teased.

Cullen made to protest that he was not _smitten_ like a tween girl pining for a chevalier, but Josephine interrupted.

“We absolutely must use this to our advantage. We can host a fête to celebrate the dragon-slaying,” she spoke excitedly – she had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to host an event at Skyhold to display their ever-increasing influence. “We shall have to invite the Pentaghasts – no such event could be complete without the presence of legendary dragon slayers,” she continued. “And of course the head will have to be brought in for display. We’ll have to organize it quickly, then, before it begins to rot.” She took out a new sheaf of parchment and began furiously annotating her ideas.

“That sounds excellent, Josie,” Leliana said with an amused light in her eyes, “In the meantime, Caer Bronach is turning out to be quite the asset, and Alistair has granted it to the Inquisition as a diplomatic gift for its handling of Redcliffe, Therinfal and for stabilizing the Hinterlands.”

“It is quite the cost, though,” Cullen said. “We need to find ways to bring in much more coin.” Josephine nodded, drawing a parchment from the stock of letters she was reading.

“An inquiry to Orzammar,” she said. “Our positioning now puts us in a place to negotiate an alliance. The papers are drawn up, but I want the Inquisitor to look over it before I send it to the Assembly.”

“Speaking of,” Leliana said, “The Inquisitor should be here this evening.”

“Good,” Cullen could feel some of the tension he was holding in his shoulders relax already and he sighed. Trystane couldn’t get here quickly enough.

Josephine exchanged knowing glances with Leliana, and then spoke up. “You know Cullen, you might prepare something for Trystane’s return. I’m sure he would enjoy something… romantic,” she grinned mischievously at the flush that spread across Cullen’s cheeks.

“I’m… afraid I don’t know the first thing about that,” Cullen said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh don’t worry, we shall help you little lion,” Leliana laughed.

***

Never before had Trystane been so happy to see Skyhold, and as they drew closer he noticed that they had in fact repaired Cullen’s tower – he prepared himself for a little grumbling about it. _Maybe I can make it up with some wine_ , he thought. Even if Cullen didn’t drink particularly often, he very much enjoyed a good vintage of Montsimmard red. The entire group’s spirits had lifted when Skyhold came into view, and as they walked under its gate the tension practically melted from their shoulders. At the same time they all became painfully aware of how fatigued they were.

Trystane had quite the group awaiting him when the portcullis was raised. Cullen was there, practically beaming, along with Trystane’s family. Percival seemed oddly muted – he would have to find out what was going on there, but Brianna was bouncing on her heels and Soairse was just as excited, if a bit more restrained.

Trystane dismounted slowly, joints aching from fatigue and a long ride, but the second his boots were on the ground he was wrapped up in a hug from Brianna. It was a little comical, seeing how short and slight she was compared to him, but he wrapped an arm around her and returned her embrace for a moment before Cullen cleared his throat next to them. Trystane unabashedly stepped out of his sister’s arms and pulled Cullen into his, eliciting a startled yet pleased yelp from the man. He buried his face in the fur of Cullen’s coat, breathing in deeply and finally relaxing.

“Right, I see you two are havin’ a moment,” Percy said. “Is the rest of yer family chopped liver, brother?”

“Wait for one moment you oaf,” Trystane said affectionately as he held Cullen to him, reveling in the embarrassed semi-struggle the commander offered before letting him go. Then he greeted the rest of his family in turn, apologizing for the fact that he had been traveling for so long right when they got here.

“Brother, I’ve got to show you, Sera has been teaching me to shoot!” Brianna said excitedly, trying to heave the Inquisitor off towards the practice range.

“Bri, I’ve got to take a damn nap,” he said in mock exasperation and with an exaggerated sigh.

“And before that, we have business to attend,” Cullen said. “In fact, Leliana and I need to see you and your parents in the War Room.”

Trystane eyed him suspiciously. “What’s goin’ on,” he sighed.

“It’s complicated. But good,” Cullen said cryptically. “Kind of,” he added. “And once we’re done I have a surprise for you. That you’ll definitely enjoy.”

Trystane pulled the commander close, saying low into his ear: “I hope it’s a _big_ surprise, commander,” winking as he pulled back and Cullen’s face going beet red.

“Ugh,” Brianna was all mock indignation. “Not in front of us, you idiot!” Trystane just laughed and mussed her hair. After recovering his composure, Cullen motioned to the Teyrn and Teyrna to follow the Inquisitor and himself.

“We heard that you killed a High Dragon single-handedly,” his father said with an amused tone. “I’m sure your scouts exaggerate, but in any event it’ll be quite the tale!”

Trystane huffed a light laugh. “Actually, Father, it’s mostly true. We did kill a high dragon that was blocking the road to Crestwood. And it was mostly me, but not entirely.”

“Maker,” Cormac breathed. “That’s quite impressive, Trys. I cannot wait to hear how you did it.”

Trystane laughed; “Over a pint, for sure,” he said brightly, but his demeanor sobered abruptly; as they stepped onto the ramp to the Great Hall he turned to Cullen. “I have something to speak to Solas about, later. You can join, if you want. It’s serious.” He looked to the anchor, drawing Cullen’s attention deliberately to it, and Cullen nodded. The rest of the walk to the War Room was made in relative silence.

Once there, Cullen sent a runner for Leliana and pulled up chairs for the Teyrn and Teyrna. “Trystane, there’s a situation your mother has made me aware that you have to understand in order for us to discuss what Leliana has found,” he said, and Trystane’s expression was going from perplexed to anxious quickly.

“I see,” Ophelia said quietly. “Very well. Let me explain briefly,” she began. “An Antivan noble house, the Otranto family, have somehow allied with a powerful new merchant guild in Ostwick; the guild is funded anonymously from somewhere foreign. Together they’ve leveraged us into a compromised position, and are using that pressure to force Percy to marry a daughter of the Otrantos.”

That was a lot to take in at once, and Trystane sat in stunned silence processing it. At that moment Leliana came in. “It’s true, the Otrantos have suddenly become quite influential in Antiva, and coming from a relatively minor position,” she said. “And the Sterling Rose merchant’s guild is funded from somewher quite foreign – Tevinter.”

“Tevinter?” Ophelia was visibly angry. “To think that Marchers would stoop so low. How did you learn of this?”

“I thought that the timing for an antivan house to be targeting the Inquisitor’s family was most peculiar,” Cullens said, “And luckily Leliana agreed.”

“Our agents were able to determine a flow of gold and weapons linking the Sterling Rose to Magister Leviculis Porenni, whose family is tied to the Otranto family by marriage,” Leliana added. “Not only that, Porenni is a known Venatori – it is common knowledge that he is a Tevinter supremacist. Both of these connections have exploitable weaknesses, which is what we are here to discuss with you.”

Ophelia acknowledged it silently, clearly thinking about all the implications of this situation. “Of course,” she said, “I was a fool not to have considered the possibility. A novice mistake.”

“I didn’t catch it either, dear,” Cormac said, his tone quite serious. “Your commander and spymaster are impressive, Trystane. Do you have any proposals for how to deal with this?”

“We do,” Cullen said. “We have two options; the first is to sever the monetary connection to the Sterling Rose and thereby end the support base of the Otrantos in Ostwick. The other is to blackmail the Otrantos concerning their connection to a Venatori magister.”

“If they’re willing to collaborate with him in the first place, it’s likely they don’t care about the social ramifications,” Ophelia said. “It makes much more sense to cut off their financial base, but how do you plan to do that?”

“Porenni makes much of his money off of the continued conflict with the Qunari,” Leliana said, “As a weapons dealer and slave trader. If we hit the shipments of weapons out of Ostwick and raid his slaver camps, we can put a severe enough dent in his finances that he will have to rescind his backing of the Sterling Rose guild, and they will have no more incentive to collaborate with the Otrantos.”

“Very well,” Cormac said. “Ostwick will provide resources and troops to aid in this endeavor, of course. We will not sit idly by while our problems are solved for us.”

Cullen nodded. “I will be in communication with you then, concerning intelligence on slaver operations and weapons shipments. But for now, that’s all. You can tell Percy that the engagement will be called off.”

Ophelia sighed in relief. It wasn’t common for her to allow open displays of weakness in front of someone she barely knew, but she had trusted her instinct with regards to Cullen. It looked like she had been right. “Thank you, both of you,” she said to the Commander and Spymaster. “I would say House Trevelyan is indebted to you but… Trystane makes that complicated,” she said with a chuckle. “Suffice to say that Cormac and I are personally indebted to you both.” The advisors accepted her thanks silently and then the group dispersed, eventually leaving Cullen and Trystane alone.

“I, uh,” Cullen began nervously before he was pulled close to the silver-haired man and into a passionate kiss, breathy and needy from the time apart. Trystane didn’t let him go for several long, breathless moments while he reached both arms around the commander’s waist and pulled their bodies flush, licking Cullen’s lips impatiently and practically devouring the blonde.

After awhile Trystane finally released a dazed Cullen from the kiss, out of breath but smirking at Cullen’s expression. He rested his forehead against the other man’s and let out a soft chuckle. “I missed you,” he said quietly but affectionately. “What you’ve done for my family, for Percy… you’re incredible, Lion. I love you.” He delighted at the enamored look in Cullen’s eyes and the way he flushed pink at the last three words.

“Anything for you,” he said. “I love you too,” he finished as he settled his arms around Trystane’s neck, resting against his upper back and still holding him close. “And on that topic…” he suddenly sounded nervous, “I have something prepared for you. Come with me.”

Cullen led him from the war room and into the Great Hall, not wanting to let go of Trystane’s hand but reluctantly doing so in order to preserve some modicum of propriety in front of the entire Inquisition. He was certain that people would notice them disappearing to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

“I know I said I wanted a big surprise, Commander, but now? I’m not complainin’,” Trystane said when he saw where they were going. “But I’m still intendin’ to court you properly first,” this with a low chuckle.

“We’re about to see who’s courting who,” Cullen said as he opened the door to Trystane’s quarters. Immediately the scent of mint and something roasted hit them, and Trystane realized that it had been a long time since he ate a proper meal. He didn’t say anything as the blonde led him up the short flight of stairs up into his quarters, but Cullen noticed the extremely pleased flush on the silver-haired man’s expression.

The doors to the balcony were open and a gentle breeze entered the room, and Cullen led him to a table that had been set up looking out over the Frostbacks, standing by the door to let Trystane out ahead of him. The Inquisitor’s gentle gasp was well worth the effort – the scene was stunning. The Frostbacks were gorgeous in the setting sun, rich hues of orange and red settling on purple while the orb of the sun rested against the jagged silhouette of the mountains. The sky was cloudless today, and so it became a rich, uninterrupted tapestry of color that tinted the white stone of the balcony and created an ambient glow that surrounded the two. Cullen stripped off his coat while Trystane drank in the sight, watching the man with a loving gaze.

“Cullen,” Trystane turned back to the scene that had been setup for them – a rack of roasted lamb in mint pesto with grilled potatoes, a delicate Orlesian peach salad and a loaf of fresh-baked Antivan focaccia was laid out and two seats were next to each other facing the sunset, a bottle of Monsimmard red already uncorked and being poured by the commander who was doing his best not to give away his nerves. To the silver-haired man watching him, this was the most beautiful sight in the world. “This is incredible,” he said gently and walked up to his lion once the wine was poured, catching Cullen’s lips to his with a heartfelt, incredibly soft and slow kiss. He cupped one side of cullen’s face with his right hand, the other resting on his chest and finding an incredibly rapidly beating heart underneath. “I love it, Cullen, don’t be nervous,” he smiled into the kiss before separating himself and pulling a chair back for Cullen to sit in.

“That’s my job,” Cullen almost grumbled as he sat, but he could complain when Trystane leaned in from behind him and planted a kiss on the sensitive skin of his neck; it sent a thrill of anticipation down his spine.

Trystane sat down after, taking his glass of wine and handing the other to Cullen; suddenly the blonde felt like the tables had been flipped on him and he was the one being entertained. “This is gorgeous, Cullen,” Trystane’s eyes were lit up with excitement and affection.

Cullen thanked the Maker for Josephine’s help. He took a sip of his wine, sitting it down and then standing slightly to reach over the table and cut a shank off of the roasted lamb. He sawed at the meat but found to his dismay that he was butchering it somewhat.

“Never change, Lion, you’re cutting it against the grain,” Trystane said teasingly. He stood and gently nudged the knife from Cullen’s grasp, cutting the lamb at a different angle at which the knife practically glided through the meat. He handed a plate to Cullen and then served some himself, then grabbing some bread and salad. He laughed gently as he raised the glass to his lips.

“What’s funny?” Cullen was nervous that he’d done something stupid.

“Oh, I was noticing the vintage you chose,” Trystane had a fond grin on his lips. “I just… when we left Crestwood I had decided to get us a bottle of this exact wine when I got back. Looks like you beat me to it,” he said as he leaned in his chair so that his arm and shoulder pressed lightly against Cullen’s.

The blonde couldn’t have been more pleased to hear that – the wine selection had been his and, while Josephina had argued for a white wine to pair with the mint pesto, Cullen had known Trystane would appreciate it.

The pair ate rather quickly, partly oweing to the fact that neither of them had eaten since very early that day – Trystane because he had been riding the entire day and Cullen because he had been working since sunrise. Once the food was gone, the entire rack of lamb surprisingly devoured, salad demolished and the potatoes and bread mostly eaten, the two sat back into their chairs and sipped on their wine in calm companionship.

“So, tell me about that dragon,” Cullen said, and Trystane chuckled. “What? It’s an exciting thing for you to accomplish,” he said when he heard the Inquisitor laugh.

“Oh I wasn’t laughin’ at you. I just knew you’d be excited, ‘s all. I still can’t get over it. Dragonslaying used to be my aspiration as a warrior, you know. It’s part of why I chose to fight with a spear. A Pentaghast dragon hunting manual had said it was the best weapon for fightin’ dragonkin.” Trystane didn’t know if he was babbling, but Cullen didn’t seem to mind. He told Cullen all about the dragon, from its size to its color, the awesome and terrible strength of its roar, the feeling of electricity in the air when it launched plasma at them. How its scales shone so beautifully in the sun, and how even restrained to the ground and dying it was the most majestic thing he’d ever seen.

“Trys, I…” Cullen began. “Maker, I’m not good at this, but you deserve it. You are the most incredible sight to me – more beautiful than any dragon,” he internally cringed while he said it, hoping that Trystane would think it was awkward, or cheesy, or stupid, but his heart stopped when he saw the look it elicited in the silver-haired man. And he really felt it was true – in the light of the sunset Trystane’s hair caught the oranges, reds and purples, diffusing the color throughout his translucent silver and washing over his fair skin. The angle of the light played in shadows along his jaw and neck, down to his collarbone, and the tight-fit tunic he wore hugged his musculature in a way that was only accentuated by the shadows created by the sunset.

Trystane didn’t respond verbally, instead leaning over in his chair and pulling Cullen into another kiss, like he was trying to convey physically how happy Cullen had just made him, and it was working. Cullen’s heart was racing in his chest, a giddy sensation spreading throughout his body as he turned to better face Trystane in his chair and threading a hand gently through the hair at the back of the man’s head, cupping his neck and pressing further into the kiss.

Finally feeling the moment was right, Cullen pulled away gently, giving one last kiss to a confused Inquisitor. “I have something for you,” he said as he stood up. “I worked with Dagna on this. I hope you like it.”

Trystane got up as Cullen moved to the closet to retrieve something that he had supposedly stashed there.

If Trystane had thought that the dinner was the best thing he would see tonight, or the view, or Cullen’s _incredibly_ sweet comment, he was absolutely wrong. Cullen called to him to close his eyes and he obeyed, not wanting to ruin the moment that Cullen had evidently worked so hard on. When he opened them, Cullen was standing right in front of him, holding a weapon in two hands: a spear so beautifully crafted that at first Trystane was afraid to touch it, but he slowly reached for it and took it from the Commander wordlessly, examining every detail.

It was surprisingly lightweight but strong, he could feel it. Interestingly it hummed with power as soon as he touched it and he noticed runes engraved in lyrium in the head of the blade and running down the grip; the handle of the spear was Silverite, but the blade was something he didn’t recognize. He could feel the material radiated power, however, and it was uniquely beautiful. It was opalescent, shimmering with the depths of crystal but precisely shaped into a razor-sharp spearhead. The spearhead was set into the haft by a pair of intricately shaped Silverite wings that extended from the handle and wrapped delicately but firmly around the crystal. Dagna had done a truly exceptional job, he thought. Trystane ran a finger along the flat of the blade, feeling how it practically thrummed with electricity.

“Cullen this is – I don’t even know how to properly say…” Trystane began and he began to feel slightly overwhelmed with emotion, but he reigned himself in long enough to ask. “What is this made of? It feels… powerful?”

“That is a material that Minaeve discovered in the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Cullen said softly, committing every moment of this to memory – he felt himself in utter bliss at Trystane’s visibly elated reaction to the gift. “It’s called Veil Quartz – a crystal that is incredibly charged with magic, laced with lyrium, and as hard as diamond. It’s… beautiful and strong. It makes me think of you, Trys. My eagle,” he stepped closer and wrapped an arm around the enamored man’s waist, kissing softly at the angle of his jaw, trailing to his ear and then to his neck.

“That… Cullen, this is the most incredible thing anyone has done for me. _You_ are incredible,” Trystane said lovingly as he wrapped his free arm in turn under Cullen’s to the small of his back. “I don’t deserve anyone like you,” he said as he  sighed into Cullen’s continued affections at his neck, working his way to Trystane’s collarbone. “How can I ever show you my gratitude,” his voice suddenly had a mischievous tone and he levitated the spear gently to his weapon rack, not wanting to be careless with this priceless gift.

Now that he had a free hand he slipped it under Cullen’s tunic, working the fabric up as he put his hand against the commander’s chiseled chest – he curled his fingers into the soft curly hair there and Cullen took the hint, allowing Trystane’s other hand to finish pulling off his tunic and undershirt together in one fluid motion.

Desire and adrenaline were beginning to flood Cullen’s system in equal measure when he felt Trystane’s mouth on his collarbone, teeth biting gently while he sucked at the skin there – he knew the Inquisitor was deliberately leaving his mark there and it was incredibly arousing. He arched his head back slightly, moaning into the sensation until Trystane moved further down, licking and nibbling at his chest and stomach until he was on his knees, face level with the tenting in Cullen’s trousers. At first Cullen moved to take the pants off but Trystane gripped his wrists, holding them in place.

“Be patient, Lion,” he said and he placed his lips over the bulging fabric, exhaling hot air through the fabric.

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen hissed at the intensity of the feeling. He didn’t even know you could do that. Trystane continued to practically worship the bulge there, creating a heat and wetness there that was tantalizing to Cullen’s covered cock, and he could feel himself twitching with desire while Trystane teased him.

“You seem to be enjoying this,” Trystane hummed with satisfaction. “I wonder if I could make you climax from just that… but I won’t torture you like that,” he chuckled mischievously and Cullen suddenly cursed his own lack of experience. The Inquisitor’s deft fingers undid the threading at his waistband and pulled his trousers down and then his small clothes, releasing his already painfully stiff cock from the fabric. Then Trystane buried his face in the crook of his thighs, breathing in the scent of musk and salt, licking at the sensitive spot on the inside of Cullen’s thigh, feeling Cullen shudder under his touch as he reached up with his left hand to cup Cullen’s sac.

Cullen groaned, almost growled. “Maker, Trys, you’re driving me insane,” he hissed between moans as the wet tongue explored his skin, along the inside of his thigh to his sac and licking at him there before slowly gliding up the shaft of his throbbing member. Finally Trystane took the head in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and feeling Cullen’s hips hitch. He braced his hands around Cullen’s thighs, cupping his arse and pushed more of Cullen into his mouth, taking him almost to the hilt before he couldn’t take any more – he didn’t have much of a gag reflex. He bobbed back up to just the head before diving back down, blonde hairs curling against his nose whenever he took as much of Cullen as he could into his throat.

His hands were threaded tightly into Trystane’s hair and he could feel the commander’s barely restrained desire to thrust into his mouth, how his fingers pulled at his hair slightly, enough to be arousing but not truly painful.

The hot wet sensation was getting to be too much to bear, but all thought had long since fled Cullen’s mind. It had been so long since he had been with anyone, years as a matter of fact, and he had forgotten the difference in sensation. He felt the cool air as Trystane released him, then taking one of his balls into his mouth and sucking at it gently and the strange pressure there was incredibly intense – at the same time Trystane took the wet cock into his hand, stroking slow but certain along the length, teasing at the head with his thumb, providing enough pressure for there to be friction and sensation there but not enough to be rough.

Cullen fought to regain some semblance of brain function, a true feat against the onslaught of sensitivity and sensation that Trystane was providing him, and realized that if this went on much longer it would be over much sooner than he wanted – he pulled out of Trystane’s grip, squatting down and hooking his arms under Trystane’s and pulling him to standing into a fierce kiss – he was going to regain control of this situation, _by the Maker_. It was all the more arousing that he could taste himself on the man’s tongue.

He made quick work of Trystane’s clothes, practically tearing off the tunic and undershirt and yanking the trousers down to the Inquisitor’s feet; he growled in desire as he saw the hard cock there and smattering of black hair that connected to the trail on his abdomen and stomach. He wrapped his arms around Trystane’s waist, pulling their bodies tight together, feeling their cocks press together and he thrust himself against Trystane, relishing in the pressure it created there, the friction and heat, before he casually picked up the taller man – he was tall and muscular but very lean, and Cullen was incredibly strong.

On instinct Trystane wrapped his legs around Cullen’s waist as their lips connected again and Cullen moved to the bed, leaning over and depositing Trystane on his back before moving down to his jaw, trailing his affection down his neck and chest; he had a goal in mind, however, and he wasn’t one to tease, unlike Trystane. He dragged the tip of his tongue down the trail of short black hair leading from the navel down the stomach, across the waist and to the man’s crotch, where he didn’t hesitate before taking the Inquisitor’s cock in his mouth – he was inexperienced but he was determined to please, but _Maker_ his lover’s cock was thick – average in length, but difficult just to fit in his mouth. He took a couple inches into his mouth before he could feel the head touching the entryt his throat and decided to concentrate on the head, swirling his tongue around it like Trystane had and instead stroking the shaft with his hand, the other stroking himself absentmindedly while he focused on his lover who’s back was arching against the bed. The motion, the site of Trystane fully his and arching with pleasure, his fingers digging into the mattress, was enough to send Cullen close to the edge, but he held back.

He brought his other hand up to massage at the skin just below Trystane’s balls, just brushing the sensitive spot enough for Trystane to hiss with pleasure while his hips bucked slightly.

“Fuck, Cullen, thas’ incredible,” Trystane said, craning his neck to drink in the sight of Cullen between his legs, lips stretched over his cock and his haird wild, cheeks flushed. “Cullen, come here,” he said as he tugged at Cullen to join him on the bed; once Cullen was on the mattress Trystane sat up and flipped Cullen onto his back, pinning him in place. “You’re all mine now, Lion,” he practically purred as he settled back into the space between Cullen’s spread legs, holding his arms in place while he took his member back into his mouth, bobbing up and down its length.

“Trys, shit, I can’t last much longer,” Cullen hissed while his hips strained not to thrust into Trystane and he tried to move his arms but an iron grip held them down. “Trystane, I’m about to-”

The silver-haired man ignored his warnings, continuing on until he felt the man’s cock start to pulse in his mouth, salty white liquid shooting down his throat, but he continued to administer his attention to the head in his mouth even while his mouth was filled; he took a second to swallow the man’s seed before resuming what he’d been doing – especially sensitive having just spent his load Cullen gave a brief yelp at the renewed sensation – when had he lost control here again? He didn’t even know how it had happened.

Then Trystane moved to straddle Cullen, stroking his cock while Cullen watched his lover pleasure himself – instead Cullen spat on his palm and took Trystane I his hand, seeing the man almost double over at the sudden change of sensation. He was rapidly discovering that Trystane was incredibly sensitive, all over, and he filed that information away to make use of later. For now he focused on Trystane’s cock, the sound of the man’s low moans and the sight of the man straddling his lap filling his senses; he was practically drunk on the arousal of the sight before him and the euphoria of his climax.

“Cullen, I’m close, I’m – _fuck_ ,” he hissed as his cock tightened and throbbed, sending thick strands of white all over Cullen’s chest, some shooting far enough to land on his jaw; the look on Trystane’s face, the feeling of his pulsing cock in his hand was intoxicating, and neither of them moved for several moments while they both caught their breath before Trystane bent over to kiss Cullen lovingly, both of them spent.

“I love you, Cullen,” Trystane sighed contentedly into the kiss.

“I love you too, Trys,” Cullen’s breath was shaky still, but his tone blissful.

Chucking and making a gesture that brought a rag levitating into his hand, Trystane wiped Cullen down gently before discarding the towel, then sank down into the mattress next to the sated blonde, pulling himself into the crook of his lion’s arm and entangling their legs comfortably. Now it was time to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen can be so smooth when he wants to be, right? Also, miscellaneous notes. In the real world, many wines are named after the region where they are grown and pressed, so I thought that would make sense here. Ie, instead of champagne they might have a Monstimmard. I dunno. Also, I think I might work on some illustrations for Trystane and his new spear and maybe Percy too. We'll see. 
> 
> Comments and critiques are welcome always! I love hearing from y'all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're the Inquisitor and Commander you don't get much of a morning after. Percival brings good news to Dorian. Cullen and Trys have a much-needed spar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is short. I have a lot going on with school, I'm the producer of our fashion show, in addition to creating two collections for said show and also having my regular classes and preparing for internships. It's a lot of work.   
> As a result, I don't think I can keep up with posting 6k word chapters here every day, and I wanna see if anyone has thoughts on this. i was thinking either move my posting to weekends, or post small chapters daily. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this short but cute chapter!

The morning came to soon, in the form of a runner knocking at the Inquisitor’s door. Trys was settled blissfully into Cullen’s chest, the commander laying on his side with his arms wrapped around the silver-haired man. It was the first night in a while that Cullen had suffered no nightmare. Needless to say, neither of them wanted to get up.

“Leave the message at the door!” Trystane called irritably.

“I can’t, Your Worship! Leliana says it’s quite important,” the woman responded.

He growled low in irritation and swiped his hands across his face, trying to rub away the sleep. “Fine, one moment,” he said as he tried to maneuver himself out of Cullen’s grasp; the blonde refused, tightening his hold about the Inquisitor’s waist.

With an amused snort Trystane reached over to Cullen’s side, delicately grazing the skin there with his fingertips and feeling the commander twitch, trying to suppress the reaction. He continued until he could feel the commander gently shaking, no longer able to hold in his reaction as he reached for Trystane’s arm pull it away from his ticklish side. Trystane took the opportunity to roll out of bed, chuckling at Cullen when he saw the man’s pout.

“That’s not fair,” the Fereldan grumbled.

“It’s strategic,” Trystane retorted as he dressed himself quickly in something loose and went to the door. The runner was trying her best not to act as if she had just stumbled across the Inquisitor and Commander in a compromising position. Her slight flush gave her away and Trystane tried to smooth his hair as she coughed politely into her fist. “What is it?” he asked, trying not to sound irate.

“Sister Nightingale needs you to approve these movements before the eigth bell so that agents can be dispatched,” the runner handed him a stack of missives several inches thick. At that moment, the seventh bell rang.

“Lovely,” Trystane said. “Tell her I will have it done by the hour.” At that he unceremoniously closed the door in the runner’s face and walked back up the short steps into the chamber. Cullen was getting dressed groggily.

“Sounds as if we’ve both got duties to attend,” Cullen sounded disappointed asa he sat on the edge of the bed lacing up his boots. Trystane set the documents on his desk and moved over to the bed, surprising the blonde by straddling his lap and catching him in a brief, affectionate kiss.

“Thank you for yesterday, Cullen,” he said quietly. “And for my new spear. I’m going to have to try it out soon… Perhaps my Lion will have time to spar later?” he loved how that instantly lifted Cullen’s spirits visibly, quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile.

“He might,” he replied and settled a hand on Trys’ waist. “Come to the practice field when you’re done for the day. It’s been awhile since we had a match.”

“And I still owe ye for last time, Commander,” Trystane taunted as he stepped out of Cullen’s lap, allowing the blonde to stand. “Now get to movin’, I’ve got a stack of reports to get through in an hour,” he sighed and Cullen made a sympathetic grimace.

“Right. I will… see you later,” he said and leaned in for a quick peck. As he turned to leave he was startled almost into the air when he felt a hard smack on his arse, and turned to see Trystane looking out toward the balcony innocently. “I’m getting you back for that later,” he said with a smirk and continued out the door. The Inquisitor moved over to his desk with a dramatic sigh.

***

Percival swallowed against the knot in his throat as his hand was perched ready to knock on the door in front of him. It hung there for several moments while he gathered a little courage; this sort of hesitation was a rarity for you and he was a little surprised by himself. Finally he knocked, just three curt raps against the wood.

“Come in,” came the instantaneous reply and the door swung open on its own. “I was wondering how long it would take you to knock,” Dorian said drily as Percival took a few steps into the chamber; a room that had once been more like his quarters than his own and which now intimidated him entirely. “What do you want,” he didn’t sound exasperated or annoyed, but perhaps tired, wary.

Percival wasn’t entirely sure what to say. What he had rehearsed in his head had vacated the premise. _Please take me back, I was a fool_? Dorian would scoff and romanticized nonsense like that.

The Tevinter man was curled up into an armchair in front of his fireplace; there was no wood there, and the mage had instead enchanted a flame into it. The room was warm, dimly lit and cozy as it all was, and it displayed Dorian’s intellectual nature like a badge. On a corner table was daunting-looking alchemistry paraphernalia, the quarters were strewn with books and scrolls, and another table housed what looked like an experiment involving crystals; the room smelled like coffee, something that Dorian drank endlessly. Percy realized awkwardly that Dorian was waiting for him to speak.

“The, uh… the engagement’s off,” Percy said, trying to leave what he meant hanging in the air.

“My condolences,” Dorian’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Is that all?”

Percy took a step closer, hoping that the man’s unbothered attitude was just a façade. He was very good at that. “I’m sorry about what happened, Dorian. But the situation’s been fixed. I was hopin’ we could go back.. to the way things were.”

Dorian sighed and snapped the book he was holding shut. “You get engaged spontaneously, leave me, and then a couple weeks later it’s off and you want me back? I’m not a fool, Percy,” his eyes narrowed. “And I’m not stupid enough to think that’s all that was going on either.”

Percy was a little dumbfounded. He had been worried that Dorian might reject him, but he really hadn’t been prepared for it. He could feel heat welling up behind his eyes but did his best to suppress it, only saying “I s’pose thas’ fair,” quietly; he hoped his voice didn’t sound like the knot that was choking him.

He turned to leave, when the door slammed shut.

“That’s all you have to say?” _Now_ Dorian was exasperated. “Percival, just tell me what was happening. I want to understand.”

The Trevelyan tried his best to shrink away, but it was more or less impossible for a man as tall, broad and muscled as himself. So he turned back to the tevinter man, who was gesturing to a seat across from him at the fireplace. Percival took the seat gingerly – he supposed it was time to tell Dorian. It had been resolved, after all, and Trystane had told him it was ridiculous not to tell the man in the first place. Now he just felt guilty.

“It’s true I was promised to an Antivan woman,” he sighed, “But there were extenuating circumstances. It was impossible to avoid,” he paused a moment to make sure Dorian was listening; he was, intently. “These Antivan nobles had allied themselves to an Ostwick merchant guild that was being funded from overseas; they found an exploitable weakness in my family’s holdings and leveraged that weakness into trying to force me to marry their daughter. My parents brought the situation to me, and I agreed to it. If the Trevelyans fall, the balance of power in Ostwick disintegrates and it could be the next Kirkwall. It was worth the sacrifice.”

Dorian didn’t seem surprised, or even fased really. “And now this situation has miraculously been fixed?” he was still sarcastic. “I’m very pleased for you.”

“We couldn’t fix it ourselves, because we didn’t know all the facts and didn’t have time for our own contacts to be of any use. Apparently Cullen thought the whole thing was suspicious, and he enlisted Leliana’s help. Turns out a Venatori magister was funding the guild, so they exploited that and the guild backed off. Now the antivans have to leverage in Ostwick.”

That actually did seem to garner a reaction from Dorian, one of vague surprise. “And you didn’t think a tevinter noble such as myself could have helped you with this?” Dorian said with mock offense.

“Dorian-” Percy was feeling very guilty already, and more dejected with each passing moment. “I didn’t know, okay? I didn’ know about the tevinter until it was already dealt with. Trys and Cullen told me just a li’l while ago. I know I fucked up, I didn’ want this to become your problem, but it was stupid of me. But if you’re no’ gonna take me back then just tell me and I’ll leave you in peace.”

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a long sigh. “Glazing over the fact that _yes_ , it was irresponsible of you, and _yes_ , I did deserve to know…” he looked Percival in his grey-green eyes, the hallmark of the Trevelyan clan, evidently. “But what in Andraste’s name makes you think I wouldn’t take you back?”

The words didn’t register with Percival for a moment, but in the next Dorian found himself swiftly pulled into the air and into the huge man-bear’s arms while Percival buried his face in the crook of Dorian’s neck.

“Andraste’s arse, you had me going Dorian,” he sighed and barely registered the tevinter’s meager attempts to free himself.

“You deserved it, you enormous oaf- let me go!” Dorian’s voice was mock offense and exaggerated drama. Percival released him back onto solid ground, only to lean down into Dorian’s space and pull him into a rough kiss – his lips were textured and his beard scratched at Dorian’s jaw, but the mage returned it eagerly. Percy reveled in the taste of Dorian’s coffee on his tongue.

“You know you love me, Pavus,” Percival said cheekily when he released the man for air.

“Someone certainly got over their nerves quickly,” Dorian noted with a wry laugh. “But yes, I suppose I do.”

“And I love you too,” Percival pressed his forehead to Dorian’s, content to enjoy the man’s presence for a moment as his heart settled.

***

Cullen’s day had gone by very quickly, due in large part to his mood. His dinner with the Inquisitor was definitely a success, the man loved the gift he’d commissioned from dagna, and he had gotten to wake up with the man he loved cradled to his chest; on top of all that, he had slept through the night with no nightmares for the first time in awhile. It was almost certainly because of Trystane, whether it was just because he took comfort in the man’s presence, or it was a byproduct of the man’s healing magic.

As a result of his revitalized demeanor he had run through morning drills and his paperwork before noon, with time to work with the templars and the specialized units in the afternoon. After the war room meeting he and Trystane had had a conversation with Percy where they gave him the good news, and just recently he had seen the black-haired Trevelyan with Dorian again. Having helped them definitely made Cullen feel proud. It didn’t hurt that Trystane was extremely grateful to Cullen for fixing this mess with the Otrantos.

Speaking of the Inquisitor, a runner had found Cullen in his office only a few minutes ago to let him know that Trystane was going to go to the practice grounds as soon as he was done with a meeting with one Duke Kellington of Nevarra. Now he was pacing excitedly to the grounds himself, having taken a few minutes to grab his sword and shield. He happened to see from a ways away that Trystane had already made it there; the sight of the man never failed to draw him in, his brilliant silver hair catching the sun and his new spear – which Dagna had crafted beautifully – caught the light as well. The sharpened veil quartz at the head was opalescent in the sun, giving of glints of pinks and purples, reds and blues as the rays sifted through the facets of the crystal.

Trystane saw him approaching as well, standing from where he had been leaning against a practice dummy, twirling the spear absentmindedly in his left hand and watching Cullen draw near.

“Hope you’re ready to be knocked on your arse, Commander,” he said. Cullen smirked and drew is blade; they were both excited to spar, and it had been quite awhile since they had the opportunity. Now that he thought about it they hadn’t properly had a match since Haven. He tasted the subtle electricity in the air of the barrier being cast over both weapons. His shield was at the ready and just in time; Trystane lashed out quickly, testing his defences in that precise, analytical fighting style he had while he circled the man.

Cullen was too impatient to play this game however, and he knew enough by now to understand that if he were to allow Trystane too long to think then he was doomed; he had to close distance and press that advantage before Trystane could decide on a strategy. He lunged forward with his sword, catching the hilt of the spear that twisted up to block, then tried to bash with the spear. Trystane stepped back agilely, knowing that Cullen was trying to get in close. Cullen decided he had to try to herd the man towards a structure, corner him so he couldn’t evade and create distance.

Steel clashed with Silverite rapidly as Cullen continued to press forward aggressively; his muscles were already feeling the exertion, given that he was being much more aggressive than he normally and given that Trystane was usually the only one to last this long in a match against him. Percival as well, he supposed.

The Inquisitor tried bringing the spear’s counterweight up against his shield but Cullen braced his arm to prevent the spear wielder from creating an opening; he winced at the intense impact and the vibration that jarred his arm. To his surprise Trystane immediately whipped the blunt end back again into the shield; this time he wasn’t ready and his ar was flung wide, the vibrations forcing his hand open and he dropped his shield. He narrowly sidestepped as the blade hissed by his side – in a real battle with no barriers, that might have been a fatal error.

“Don’t you take it easy on me now, Trystane,” he growled at the Inquisitor, who smirked at him in return.

“I think you’re goin’ soft, Cullen,” he teased and brought the spear back around in another deadly yet precise arc; this one brought the haft of the weapon into the underside of Cullen’s crossguard, but the former templar held onto it even if the impact sent fierce pain into the side of his hand. He saw Trystane look worried for a moment, but he grinned through it and the Inquisitor relaxed.

“Worry about yourself, Inquisitor,” he taunted back and stepped forward into a strong overhead swing; it was parried before it even got close to Trystane and in the opening it created he felt a boot collide with his chest. He stumbled back but managed not to fall, hurriedly moving to block another strike; he needed his shield if he was to win this match.

Trystane saw him looking to the shield and placed himself in the way. “Come on Cullen, you can manage without it,” he said. “Make me work for it, Lion!”

At that Cullen huffed and pressed aggressively forward, a flurry of sword strokes that kept Trystane on the defensive as he moved into his space. Miraculously this was working; he wasn’t giving Trys any time to attempt to disarm him or force him off balance, and while he wasn’t exactly creating openings yet, he could if he could get a little closer…

Cullen finally maneuvered close enough where the mobility of the spear became severely limited. With a deft movement of one hand he hooked his crossguard under the haft of the spear and twisted it while he kneed Trystane in the stomach, startling him and winding him sufficiently to force him to release his grip on the spear. He knew better than to believe the match to be won yet, however.

True to form, Trystane ducked under his next blow and side-stepped, practically hopping a few paces away. The Inquisitor was a formidable fighter even unarmed; he had a practiced, precise and brutal combat style in hand-to-hand fights that Cullen had never seen before; to be honest the knowledge of most Fereldans in a hand-to-hand fight was limited to bar brawls.

He lunged at the Inquisitor, ensuring not to overextend himself; Trystane sidestepped it, fists still raised as he bounced lightly on his feet. If anything, all that stretching and running ensured that he was very agile. With Cullen’s next strike, growing bolder, Trystane ducked under the blade and then chopped at Cullen’s wrist with the back of his hand in a deft, lightning-fast strike. Cullen cried out in surprise as he dropped the blade, his hand opening on reflex. The next thing he new Trystane was at his side, a leg folded behind his own and a hand on his chest forced him back and over his center of gravity; he landed on his back heavily, Trystane straddling him with a dagger to his throat.

“Do you submit, Commander?” he said with a smirk.

“Never… but we have an audience,” he said quietly as he noticed the small crowd of soldiers that had watched the exchange. Trystane flushed and Cullen bucked his hips up and to the side, sending the Inquisitor off-balance and off of the commander’s stomach. “Shall we call it a draw?” he stood and dusted himself off, trying to remove the dirt that had gotten onto his furs.

“Only if you buy me a drink later, Lion,” Trystane said quietly so that the audience couldn’t hear. He reached out for Cullen’s hand, grasping it firmly and shaking it. “Well done, Commander,” he said in a louder tone before sending his spear levitating into his other hand. With a quick wink he turned and left the field, leaving a curiously aroused Cullen and a throng of amused soldiers behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques are very appreciated! I love hearing from anyone who reads this.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane meets with Solas about something that's been concerning him. Later on, Sera comes to collect her payment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry for a short chapter. Just crazy busy and getting into the routine of the new semester, but my updates will get more consistent again once I get used to writing around my school schedule! Thanks for reading, as always!

Solas had more or less claimed the bottom floor of the rotunda; he had set up a small study there, and he worked constantly at a fresco in the dalish style that was beginning to truly dominate the southern portion of the circular wall. At the moment he had decided to take a break and was relaxing, reclined into a plush chaise lounge with a book he had borrowed from the basement library. He heard the door to the rotunda swing open but he didn’t have to look to see who it was; the Herald’s presence was like a glowing beacon to himself as well as mages and spirits alike.

“Solas! I hope you’re not busy,” Trystane called to him. Solas closed his book gently and set it aside, sitting up in the chaise.

“Not at all, my friend,” he said. “Come to discuss something?”

Trystane looked… distracted, perhaps even vaguely nervous. He looked at his hand, an instinctual thing. “Yes and no,” he said. “It’s about the anchor. It’s behaving differently recently.”

“I had wondered what had changed,” Solas said. “The magic it emits is much more focused, and much stronger now. What has it been doing?”

Trystane described what had occurred in Crestwood; how he had summoned a small rift that engulfed the bandit leader, and how it seemed that no matter what he did he never seemed to expend all his mana. The Inquisitor said he had spent hours meditating on a wind charm recently with no real effect except some minor fatigue. He also described Cole’s reaction to the changes in the anchor, how he had described it as fully connected to the Fade, now.

“I’m worried that Corypheus’ tamperin’ with it in Haven has made it unstable,” Trystane concluded, speaking in such low tones that he was practically whispering; he didn’t want everyone in the rotunda to hear about this, after all.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere else to discuss this further,” Solas said, catching on to why Trys was being so quiet.

“How about Cullen’s office?” Trystane said. “I was going to tell him about this anyway.”

“Very well. Dorian should come as well,” Solas said. “He has an academic familiarity with magics that might be useful.” Trystane nodded and, when Solas stood to head over to the stairwell, the Inquisitor called up into the Rotunda:

“Dorian, get your Magister arse down here!” he called, eliciting a chuckle from Solas and a string of swears from the _not-a-magister_ Dorian.

A few minutes later they had made their way into Cullen’s office, and the succession of looks on Cullen’s face when first Trystane had entered, followed by Dorian and then Solas, had been comical to say the least. The look he settled on finally was confusion.

“Is something wrong, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked with his head cocked slightly to the side when Solas shut the door behind him.

“Well, if you recall, I said there was something serious I needed to have a chat with you and Solas about, and Solas thought Dorian could weigh in, so here we are,” he sighed. “Sorry to ambush you, Cullen. Also,” he turned to the doors, casting a charm to seal them for the moment. “This is something that is best kept private.”

“I see. Well take a seat by all means,” Cullen gestured to a few spare chairs at a table in the corner, and the three visitors arranged themselves.

Trystane told Dorian and Cullen what he had told Solas – that his Anchor was much more powerful now, and was exhibiting new behaviors, and that he was worried that whatever Corypheus did to it in haven had changed it.

“I see,” Cullen said. “Is there anything we can do to ensure the mark is still safe to use? And that you are still safe?”

Dorian chuckled. “How sweet is that. Adorable. It’s a very interesting predicament. My first thought is that this is the functionality that the anchor was intended all along – since you acquired it by accident, perhaps there is a final step to its preparation that Corypheus never had the chance to finish?”

“That would make sense,” Solas agreed. “Its purpose was to breach the Fade – an intimate connection to the Fade and an ability to open rifts would be hallmarks of such a tool. Perhaps the greatest danger is in accidentally creating unstable rifts, but I would hypothesize that a stable rift requires much more initial power to create.”

“Then perhaps I can experiment with it, perhaps learn what else it can do,” Trystane said. “If you two would help me?”

“I-” Cullen interrupted – “That doesn’t sound very smart to me, Trys, we don’t know what that thing could do to you.”

“But there is a chance it could give me an edge against Corypheus,” Trystane said. Cullen just grumbled in response.

“Your eagle will be quite safe,” Dorian said with a wry grin. “He’ll have an altus and the best apostate mage in Thedas looking after him! If we’re lucky, we may even discover the means by which the anchor was created, if you think about it,” he was suddenly engrossed in the thought, twirling his mustache as he considered the possibility. “If we could create anchors, or learn magic that can seal rifts, then we could get rid of the Inquisitor with no issue! Free at last,” he flinched as Trystane slapped his shoulder dramatically, cackling with laughter at the face deep scowl on Cullen’s face.

“And to think I helped you,” Cullen sighed. “Arse.” He rubbed at his temple, feeling his headache deepening. “Look, Trys, if you want to explore this I won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I let you do anything too dangerous. I want to know what you’re working on and I want a plan in place for any possible risks.”

“I think that’s very reasonable,” Solas said. “Now that that’s settled, I will take my leave. Gentlemen.” He stood and, once Trystane had removed the charm, he ducked out through the door. Dorian tried to leave as well, but not before Trystane got one more good hit in on his shoulder.

“Cullen, I promise you I’ll be safe,” he tried to calm the commander’s anxiety. “The whole purpose of this discussion was to determine if I’m at risk. So we’ll learn more about the anchor and hopefully that will help.”

Cullen sighed but nodded. Trystane’s lips turned into a slight smirk as he stood and then settled himself sideways into Cullen’s lap, wrapping his arms about the man’s shoulders. Cullen heard the faint whisper of magic as the doors sealed themselves again.

“Thank you, Lion, for takin’ care of me,” he said as he nuzzled the blonde’s nose, grinning as he saw Cullen’s frown dissipate. “Now how about I take care of you,” he breathed as he peppered the commander’s neck with kisses.

“I, um-” Cullen turned his head to give Trystane more access to his neck. “Trysta-”

At that moment the door leading towards the rotunda was knocked on firmly. “Commander! Corporal Vale has arrived with his monthly report!”

Cullen grumbled in displeasure as Trystane stood up from his lap, flushed red. “It’s a good thing it was sealed,” Trystane said quietly before giving Cullen one last peck. He stood up straight unsealed the door.

“Come in!” Cullen practically snapped.

***

Trystane had decided that it would be best to use the Inquisition’s power to conquer Thedas so he could institute a ban on paperwork completely. If, in Cullen’s speech during which he had offered the position of Inquisitor to the Ostwicker, he had mentioned how _much_ documentation was involved in making this organization run smoothly, he would have turned the job away. He had spent hours now hunched over his desk, peering carefully through every note and missive to be sent his way.

It was giving him a migraine, to say nothing of his back and his arse.

He sighed in frustration, swiping his hand over his face to try to rub the fatigue away while he leaned back in his chair, rocking it onto its back legs.

At that moment his door swung open and Trystane couldn’t even summon the energy to be annoyed as he saw Sera stride up the steps and into his quarters, Brianna surprisingly in tow. “Time to pay up, Lord Sparkles!” she announced when she reached the top, then bounded over to his desk.

“Pay up? I don’t receall placin’ any bets with you, ye demon,” Trystane huffed.

Sera sniggered mischievously. “No’ a bet, Inquisitor, a deal,” she said. Suddenly Trystane’s mind snapped back into focus.

He quirked a brow. “And how do I know you’ll continue to hold up your end of the bargain if I help you _before_ my family leaves?”

“Oh, we’re no’ knockin’ them all down now,” Sera said, “So you still have a bit of leverage. But I want to get in one good one now.

Trystane stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. Sera was a  particularly shrewd person, behind her exterior of nonsense and pranks. “Very well,” he said. “Are we goin’ after Dorian and Percy?”

“You bet your Holy Arse!” Sera stuck her tongue out and Trystane stood, actually pretty pleased to have a distraction.

“And your role in this?” he said as he gave his sister a slight side-eye.

Brianna turned pink, running her hands through her unruly red hair. “Gotta pass the time here somehow!”

Trystane looked back between the two girls, eyes narrowed. “You two aren’t… _passing time_ , are you?” He asked suspiciously.

Brianna waved her arms in front of her face desperately, having gone beet-red. “I – of course not! Brother, shame on you!” Sera devolved into a fit of giggles and Trystane just gave Brianna a disbelieving grin, eyebrow cocked.

“Alright you two, let’s get this over with. Sera, any ideas?” he asked.

“Have I got ideas? Please,” Sera scoffed.

***

The trio entered Adan’s workspace, which naturally made the apothecary immediately suspicious. Trystane was the Inquisitor, however, so he couldn’t exactly shoo them away.

“Inquisitor! And Lady Trevelyan. What are you two doing here? With Sera,” he added with a scowl.

Trystane had been given the plan by Sera on their way here, and he had to admit that it would be an incredible prank. She needed him for his skill as an herbalist and his rank as Inquisitor – she could probably pull it off herself, but this way it was much easier.

“Don’t mind me Adan, putting together something for our next field mission, and entertaining my dear sister,” Trystane flashed the herbalist a smile that practically _ensured_ he was up to no good.

“Long as whatever your doing don’t fall on me,” he grumbled and returned to work as Trystane began assembling ingredients and equipment. They were there only a short time before a colorless liquid was mixed and distilled, and stored in a small glass vial.

As they left the room, Trystane handed the vial to Sera. “I feel as if I shouldn’t be handing something this strong to you,” he said with a chuckle. “Just promise you won’t use it on me?”

“No promises, Lord Sparkles!” Sera said with an ominously cheery grin.

“Lord Sparkles-” Brianna suppressed a laugh – Sera’s nickname for her brother got her every time.

“I think Sera’s a bad influence on you,” Trystane sighed, punctuated by laughter from both girls. “Though you were a li’l demon even before you came to Skyhold, so perhaps the bad influence is mutual!”

They parted ways with Brianna at the ramp up to the Keep; she had her own mission given to her by Sera as a part of this grand plan; Sera led Trystane down the hill to the lower courtyard, across it and finally to the service entrance of the kitchens.

Sera went in first, and was greeted instantly by a potato chucked at the door – said tuber missed the wary elf and smacked the Inquisitor in the face.

“Maker-!” Trystane swore under his breath as the stunned cook’s assistant, who had been preparing salted beef for the coming week, looked in horror at what he had just done.

The poor assistant, a pudgy brown-haired boy in a dirty kitchen smock, instantly fell to his knees. “My Lord Inquisitor!” he sounded terrified. “I’m so sorry, Mary told me she did, if that rogue Sera comes in here she says, you take a potato and you hit her with all you’ve got, I was jus’ following orders sir! I didn’t mean to hit you! I beg your forgiveness My Lord,” he sounded on the verge of tears.

“Quit yer whinin’ lad, you’re no’ in trouble,” Trystane said. “Lord Pavus has something prepared here and I need it for a, um, inspection. Can you fetch it?”

The boy nodded breathlessly, having difficulty regaining his composure but making a valiant attempt. He didn’t even question the odd circumstrance; he was just glad that he wasn’t to be punished for smacking the _Herald of Andraste_ with a potato. He scrambled to his feet and into a service room, from which he brought a tray that had obviously just been prepared minutes ago.

“Dorian clearly went to a lot of effort on this,” Trystane mused and then motioned for the boy to leave them for a moment. “Make it quick.”

It only took a moment, and then the silver dome was replaced over the prepared tray, and the boy called back in to return it. At that moment they heard the voice of a head cook.

“Boy! Where is the order for Lord Pavus?!” Trystane motioned for the assistant to take the tray, silently. When the boy turned he nudged Sera to go, and the two scurried quickly and quietly back out the service door.

***

Percival clasped the bouquet of flowers behind his back nervously – he doubted that Dorian was very much one for such cliché displays of romanticism, but he knew nobody could resist a well-chosen bunch of flowers. Unfortunately, Skyhold wasn’t exactly equipped with a florist, and the garden was full of medicinal herbs. Luckily, Blackwall happened to know about a secluded patch of ground down the hill where evidently some rare and beautiful flowers grew. The gruff warden had even helped the Trevelyan brother to maneuver down there and pick some. _Perhaps Blackwall is sweet on someone_ , he wondered to take his mind off of his nerves.

Anxiously he knocked on the door. He wasn’t nervous about being with Dorian per se, but this was the first time he had felt at liberty to properly pursue a relationship with a man, and he wanted to do it properly. When Dorian had invited him to dinner at his quarters he had been pleasantly excited, and throughout the day his nerves had twisted into a bundle in his stomach.

The door opened, this time not magically. Dorian certainly knew how to dress to get a man’s attention – he wore a chemise that was unbuttoned practically down to his mid chest, tufts of thick dark hair poking out from behind ivory linen that made his tanned skin so enticing – it was belted at his waist over tight deerskin breeches that highlighted the musculature of his legs, surprisingly developed in a mage.

“Are you going to come in?” Dorian was amused, having caught Percival staring unabashedly at where the fabric of the shirt fell along the line of the altus’ collarbone. Lord Pavus was quite distracted himself, seeing that Percy had actually put some effort into what he wore for once – he was dressed in a tight-fitted blue tunic that hugged the contours of his broad warrior’s chest, over black sateen knee breeches and boots.

Percival stepped into the room, brandishing the flowers and telling himself _not_ to laugh at how terrible overdone it was, and how unoriginal he was, but he couldn’t beat himself up for very long.

Dorian actually looked very taken the gesture, his usually taunting and playful expression softened when he saw the yellow flowers in the man’s grasp. “Percy, I-” he could practically see the man rejecting his natural impulse to make a joke. “They’re lovely. No one has done anything like that for me before.”

Percy felt emboldened by the look in Dorian’s eyes and stepped closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and drawing him closer. “What a shame. You deserve it, too,” he said as he tilted his head down enough where he could kiss the man – Dorian rose up a bit on his toes to meet him half-way. Their height difference was almost five inches, after all.

“I can’t wait to find out what else you’ll give me,” Dorian said with a smirk as they parted from their needy kiss. “But let’s eat first, while it’s still warm.” He stepped back and gestured to his table, normally cluttered with alchemical equipment but cleared for tonight and laid out with a spread of salmon steaks, asparagus and a wild parsnip and clover salad with what looked to be Orlesian cheese and slices of crisped bread; a flagon of white wine sat between the two chairs and Dorian took the flowers, seaerching rapidly for a vase to put them into.

A few moments later the pair were seated next to each other, thighs just barely pressed against each other while they ate companionably and sipped at their wine; it was a Churneau white, dry with notes of citrus that paired well with their fish. Percival was unsurprised at Dorian’s exceeding taste.

They hadn’t gotten very far into their meal when Percival’s stomach began to grumble uncomfortably, but he ignored it and laughed off Dorian’s quirked brow; a moment later, Dorian’s stomach did the same and suddenly they were both concerned. Another moment and Percival’s stomach gave him cause for alarm.

“I need your chamberpot,” he excused himself and practically ran to the bathroom. “It’s gone!” he practically shouted.

“What do you mean it’s _gone?_ ” Dorian snapped as he felt his stomach becoming more agitated as well.

“One of the servers must have  - _maker_ ,” Percival gripped his stomach and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I have to _go_ ,” he said. “I’m sorry Dorian!” he called as he dashed back across the room, flinging the door open and fleeing to the nearest chamberpot. Dorian was not far behind, but the tevinter did most certainly _not_ miss the sight of Sera laughing with mirth from across the courtyard.

“Andraste preserve me,” he muttered tensely to himself as he sprinted off towards the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Percy can't catch a break, huh?
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Comments and critiques are welcome, as always. I love hearing from y'all! More to come soon.


	24. 24.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane gets to the bottom of Cullen's frequent migraines and nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I am sorry for the lowered posting rate. From now on, I will be trying to post more frequently again, but that is going to come with posting shorter chapters. It's not ideal, because I prefer to write long chapters, but this is what I can feasibly keep up with. I hope that's okay with y'all!
> 
> Anyway, here's a teeny bit of drama. Kind of.

Despite the mountains of paperwork, the occasional drama and the strenuous working schedule, Skyhold had definitively become a home to Trystane. His time here always felt like a reprieve from the chaos, the violence, that had become Thedas. Unfortunately, it always had to end, and it was decided that he would be leaving in two days’ time to meet with Hawke and Stroud in the Western Approach. And even though the thought of leaving Skyhold for any length of time honestly made him feel a knot in his stomach, he was becoming more and more motivated to see this through.

His attitude towards their mission had gradually shifted. In the beginning of the Inquisition he had helped out of a sense of moral obligation. The Herald was, after all, the only man in Thedas who could demonstrably seal rifts, or even affect them in any way. Since taking up the mantle of the Inquisitor his perspective had shifted. He had seen first hand the affect that their work had had in Redcliffe, among the Templars, in the village of Crestwood. Beyond what he could see himself, he knew that they were doing good work across Fereldan and Orlais. The Inquisition had its hand in everything from hunting maleficarum in Fereldan to aiding sects of mages across Orlais, feeding the refugees in the Hinterlands and rescuing slaves from the Venatori. Pride in his work had changed his motivation, and so he wasn’t reluctant to leave Skyhold to do his duty; he was only reluctant to leave Cullen behind.

There was an unspoken weight on both of them once it had been decided at that morning’s strategy session. Trystane knew that Cullen had a hard time whenever he was gone; the man’s migraines had become terribly persistent, and Cullen had told him they were worse when he was gone. He had convinced the blonde to start sleeping in his chambers because according to the commander, his ambient healing somehow mitigated the nightmares he had at night. Trystane had asked numerous times about them, and about the headaches, but the man was nothing if not stubborn, like all Fereldans. He continued to insist that Trys not use any magic to find out the source of his problem; the latter felt that it was ridiculous. After the meeting, Cullen had excused himself quickly, saying he had a crushing headache coming on.

Trystane exchanged worried looks with Josephine and Leliana, who had voiced their concerns over this multiple times, and Cullen refused still to budge.

“I’ll go see about him,” he said with a nod to them. “Excuse me.” After a moment he stood without a word and followed the commander out of the war room; he was already nowhere to be seen, but Trystane knew he would be locked into his tower. He made his way swiftly, only briefly acknowledging the many nobles that were passing time in the great hall; he noted dryly that whereas once the only nobles who visited the Inquisition came to threaten them, now they came in throngs to curry favor. It was slightly pathetic.

He didn’t bother with the door; he knew it would be locked. Instead, a quick charm sent the lock clicking open and the door thrust open. Trystane strode through quickly but stopped on a copper as something flew past his face.

“Cullen?” he asked alarmed as he looked down to see a hinged box, open on the ground and – was that lyrium leaking from a broken glass flask?

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen gasped. “Forgive me, Trys, I didn’t know you were coming in – I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine, Cull,” he said quickly and moved over next to the desk, the door swinging shut behind him and locking itself. He tried to pull Cullen into an embrace but the man pulled away, turning from him and moving to lean against his windowsill. “Are you okay? I-”

“You shouldn’t be asking me if I’m okay,” Cullen snapped at him. “You should be asking me what in Andraste’s name just happened.”

“I’m getting’ to that,” he replied in a measured tone. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, Cull, I’m no’ an idiot.” Cullen could hear him slipping more into his accent, a sure sign he was getting distressed even when his face didn’t show it.

Cullen turned to him and Trystane could see the pain written in his expression. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t press on something this painful, but it had become clear that Cullen needed someone to share this burden with, whatever it was. Cullen moved towards him but stumbled, catching himself on the corner of the desk before coming back to standing. At that, Trystane closed the distance between them again and grabbed Cullen about the waist, supporting his weight and maneuvering him into his chair. Trystane then leaned back against the desk and waited for Cullen to decide to talk.

“Am no’ leavin’ it be this time, Lion,” he said gently. At that moment a knock sounded at the door and he whipped around to face it. “Whatever it is, give it to Cassandra!” he snapped. At that he heard footsteps scurrying away; he was pleased when it elicited a low chuckle from the commander.

“I wonder what they’ll think is going on in here,” he mused queitly to himself. He huffed a sigh and rubbed his temple before continuing. “I never meant for this to interfere, Trys.”

“Are you okay?” Trystane simply asked.

“Yes. Maybe…” Cullen replied reluctantly; he knew the silver-haired man wasn’t convinced. He allowed his gaze to linger on the man, wondering how someone like him had come to be fussing over him, looking at him with an expression so loving. He knew he didn’t deserve it. “There’s something I must tell you. You know templars take lyrium; it gives ur our power, but it controls us as well. It’s addictive, and those who are cut off go mad, even die. Even though we have a source of lyrium for our templars, I… no longer take it.”

Trystane blinked, confused for a moment. “You… stopped?” he asked hesitantly. _Hadn’t he just said that this could kill him?_

“When I joined the Inquisition. It’s been months now,” he said, no longer looking Trystane in the eye, instead staring at the edge of the desk.

“Cull, if this can kill you-”

“That’s not all; and it hasn’t yet,” Cullen interrupted. “Forgive me for being so rude, but there’s more. You asked me once about the Fereldan circle. I was there when it fell. The tower was overrun by abominations – hundreds of young mages and templars died in the chaos. I…” he hesitated suddenly. Trystane reached out and took his hand, cradling it between his silently and rubbing small circles into the back of his hand. “I was captured by maleficarum. They tortured me, tried to break me with a desire demon. It was days before the Hero of Fereldan found me and rescued me but – how can you be the same man after that? Days of… Anyway,” he sighed. “I still wanted to serve. I was sent to Kirkwall. I trusted Meredith – even if her methods were extreme, they seemed justified. But her hatred of mages consumed her, infected the Order, and I was the only real buffer between her and the mages. The Kirkwall Circle fell…” he choked back a sob and Trystane squeezed his hand, trying to offer some modicum of reassurance. “Innocents died in the streets. Don’t you understand? I want nothing to do with that life any longer.”

There was a moment of silence and Trystane figured that Cullen had said all he was going to. “Cull, I- I don’t know what to say thas’ adequate,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea…” Cullen tried to stand, but staggered and Trystane rushed to catch him. He took the opportunity to cradle the blonde to his chest. “I understand, Cull. And I support you. Maker, you already know I love you,” at this point he was practically whispering into the man’s hair; he could feel the slight shuddering of Cullen beginning to cry against his chest, could feel the man’s hands fisting in the fabric at the small of his back. Hugging him tighter, the Inquisitor held him for what felt like several minutes, just speaking soft reassurances into Cullen’s blonde hair and rubbing circles onto his back.

Cullen pulled back eventually, however, his eyes red and puffy but some of the tension gone from his body.

“Is that why you don’t want healin’ magic used?” Trystane asked, and the man nodded in response. “I’m so sorry for insistin’ – I didn’t know – I never want you to feel violated, Cullen.”

“I’ve asked Cassandra to watch over me,” Cullen said suddenly. “If my ability to lead is compromised, she is to relieve me of duty. I’m sorry it’s gone this far, Inquis- Trystane,” he sighed. “Sometimes I think perhaps this is foolish. That I should be taking it.”

Trystane cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s no’ necessary. I know you’ll get through this, Cullen.” He had still refused to give away Cullen’s hand. “And you’re to resume your duties, Commander, until I say so,” he said with a brow raised dramatically. Cullen coughed and then laughed, only for a brief moment.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

“Sir…” Trystane mused. “I quite like the sound ‘o that, Lion,” he sidled up to the commander and cupped the man’s jaw in his hands, admiring the man’s beautiful amber eyes. Cullen flushed, still never understanding how the man could look at him so admiringly. Particularly after this. “I don’t want to intrude,” he sighed. “And I reckon that after tha’ you’re needin’ a moment to cool down. I understand,” he quieted Cullen’s protests. “Rylen can manage drills on his own, Commander, you need to rest. Meet me at the tavern later. You and I’ll be havin’ a few pints,” he concluded with a wink.

“Very well…” Cullen said, before giving him a slight grin. “Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks always for reading and commenting! I really appreciate the support I've gotten from y'all and it makes my day to hear from you. Comments and critiques are always welcome! There's more to come soon.


	25. 24.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trevelyans find that their stay is up, as Trystane prepares to leave for the Western Approach. Solas and Dorian help the Inquisitor to experiment with the Anchor's power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided that I can't really call these new updates complete chapters, so here we have chapter 24.2! I am so so sorry about the wait between chapters. Between working on my portfolio, applying for internships, organizing the runway for April, and my actual classes, it's been hectic (to say the least). But here's an update, and that's what counts!
> 
> But if I get into writing shorter updates, hopefully I can begin to post more often again. Here's hoping I get another one written this weekend!

With plans for the Inquisitor to move on from Skyhold out west, the Trevelyans had decided that their stay was coming to and end. To say that Saoirse and Brianna were displeased would be an understatement.

Brianna was always one to make her displeasure known, while Saoirse was more reserved, acknowledging her duty and sticking to it. It was a notable departure, then, when Trystane and Percival found both of his sisters protesting loudly to their parents mere hours before their intended departure.

“But Ma! Da!” Brianna whined as the brothers came into their family’s suite on the floor just below the Inquisitor’s. “There’s no reason for us to return to Ostwick right now! You two have duties there but Saoirse and I want to stay with Trys and Percy for longer!”

“It is unfitting for the entire Trevelyan clan to traipse off to Skyhold and play Inquisition,” the matriarch intoned in an impatient way. “Trystane, Percival, do tell your sisters that they must return to Ostwick with us. It won’t do for either of our reputations if people accuse the Inquisitor of shirking his duties to play host to his sisters.”

“Bri, Saoirse,” Trystane sighed. “As much as I love havin’ ye here, it’s not ideal for you to stay. Bri, you’re gonna be bored outta your head the moment Percy and I leave for the Approach. And don’t forget that Skyhold is a target. It could come under attack while you’re here.”

“But look at this fortress! No force in Thedas could take it, not with this location,” Saoirse said with crossed arms. “Brother, we don’t like being sat in Ostwick, only hearing about all the near-death experiences you’re off havin’ weeks after it happened! We want to be here when you get back.”

Trystane’s look softened at that, and Ophelia huffed. “I should have known you were too soft for this, Trys,” she said, stern exterior but chuckling internally. “Percy?”

Percival responded with a wry laugh. “Trust me, ye’d be happier in Ostwick with Seth ‘n his boys, and the staff’s cookin’.” He then pulled both his sisters into one-armed hugs, the great bear of a man practically tucking one sister to each side. Saoirse and Brianna protested loudly. “Ma’s right, you know she is,” he said gently. Bri pouted and ducked out from her brother’s arm and Saoirse was released a moment later. Trystane and their parents were merely watching with amused looks while Saoirse corrected her ruffled hair.

“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “It will be nice to see them again. Come on, Bri, let’s get our things ready.” She pulled Brianna by the wrist out of the room.

“Now that that’s settled,” Cormac said with an amused tone, “Trystane, Percival, we’ll be leaving in just a couple hours. We’ll meet you both at the gate.” The boys nodded and left the suite.

***

Solas and Dorian met Trystane on one of the empty battlements, ready to put into practice what the three of them had been theorizing over the past few days. Trystane, in his dreams, had been working with Solas to practice with the Anchor with the aim of sharpening his connection to it. Dorian, meanwhile, had been running every conceivable examination on it while under different stimuli. They had gathered something of a wealth of information even in such a brief amount of time, which the trio had begun to collect into a book that they had agreed to call the Tome of the Rift. It seemed fitting, even if a bit stuffy.

“You know, we might be pioneering an entirely new branch of magic,” Dorian said as the three of them got prepared. Dorian was placing specialized wards around the battlements that would ideally negate any errant magic that might escape the area; Solas was helping Trystane to prime the Anchor for the first spell they had developed, the Veilstrike.

All he needed now was a target. Trystane cast into the middle of the battlement’s squared turret, drawing the dust and dirt from the air and from the stone around them until a bizarrely accurate facsimile of himself stood where he gestured; it was a bit of sympathetic magic that mirrored the caster using debris as a medium. The dirt golem was gesturing back to him, its pose mirroring his exactly. He lowered his arm, watching as it did the same, and lifted the other, the one with the anchor, back towards it.

“We’re ready, Inquisitor,” Dorian said. Solas nodded in the periphery of his vision. Trystane could feel the Anchor humming with power; in moments of heightened activity such as this he could almost feel the Veil around him, as if he could reach out and pluck at the fiber of its weave; the three of them hypothesized that this intuitive understanding of the makeup of the Veil was an intended use for the Anchor, given its unique purpose.

He did so now; in a rapid gesture he reached out, not so much plucking the veil apart as he maneuvered a hole in its weave. Instead of producing a Rift, this allowed him to slip energy through the Veil and forward in space; he watched as something of a ripple spread out in the air above the dirt figure before a wave of magic was sent forth through it; it collapsed easily into dust.

The next part was trickier; as he withdrew his hand from the movement, he urged the gap in the Veil to slide shut, but it wasn’t doing it. The space above the battlement continued to ripple gently and anxiety began to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

“Remember to seal the slip-gap,” Solas called from behind him. “Or the makeup of the Veil here will be considerably weakened.”

“It’s no’ closin’,” he huffed with the exertion of trying to knit the space back together. He saw Dorian approaching it, concerned. “Don’t, Dorian,” he said. “Get back!”

Grunting with effort, he cast forward with the anchor as if he were sealing a Rift; this wasn’t the way they had planned to seal the opening, because it wasn’t exactly a Rift, but he just needed it closed now so it would stop draining the Anchor; in a moment the rippling aperture of the Veil sealed itself, folding in over itself like fabric before disappearing. A small wave of energy expanded from it as it did so, knocking into Dorian and setting him just off-balance enough for him to trip over backwards and onto his arse.

“Told ye to step back,” Trystane chuckled as he fought to get his breath back; sweat glistened on his brow and he was slightly hunched. Using that technique had taken quite a bit of magic.

“As we expected, your body will need time to get used to channeling the magic of the Anchor through it; this is quite unlike acting like a passive conduit when you seal Rifts,” Solas ignored Dorian’s fall when he spoke. “But this was a promising start. You will need to practice often, if you are going to develop this skill,” he finished.

“Good thing you’re goin with me to the Approach, then,” the Inquisitor said. “You can help me when we’re camped.” Solas nodded.

“I suppose that’s all for today? Pity we didn’t open a Breach over Skyhold,” Dorian said wrily. “Gentlemen,” he said as he turned and left. Solas did the same, moving out towards the rotunda.

***

Cullen and Trystane met Josephine with the rest of the Trevelyans outside of the keep’s portcullis. “Ma, Da,” Trystane said as he gave his mother and father each a quick hug before being pulled into Brianna’s and Soairse’s embrace. “You all make sure you get home safe. And send Seth and his my best. I do wish he could come see us, but I understand travel is difficult with small children.”

“Perhaps we can make our way to Ostwick sometime,” Cullen said, earning a surprised, but pleased grin from Trystane; Brianna was visibly ecstatic.

“Wonderful! I’m holding you both to it,” she said excitedly, pulling the commander into a tight hug, sending a flush across his surprised expression. “And don’t you wait a year! I mean soon, Trys!”

The Inquisitor chuckled as Cullen struggled slightly to free himself from Brianna. He was only released when Sera bounded into view, and Brianna promptly dropped him to catch the elf who flung herself at the redhead. “Sera! I’m going to miss you so!” she sighed.

“Oh, don’ get all touchy-feely on me,” Sera said with a sniff. “ ‘Ave got a reputation to uphold,” she chuckled.

“We had best be on our way,” Cormac urged gently, but firmly. “It’s a long road to Ostwick.” The Inquisition members nodded, and Josephine wrapped up what she had been discussing with Ophelia. The Trevelyan Matriarch quickly put her seal on a letter that Josephine held out for her, and the document quickly went into the folds of the ambassador’s dress.

They got onto the horses that Dennett had prepared for them as their knights approached from the gate that was being lifted for their departure, and with a few more hugs and kisses they made their way through it and back onto the road.

Trystane watched after them for a moment before he felt a pinch at his side.

“If you go to visit them, I’m comin with ye,” Sera narrowed her eyes at him. Trystane nodded, raising a hand to scratch nervously at the back of his neck – maybe he was picking up on Cullen’s nervous tick. The elf’s expression switched to a pleased grin and she practically skipped away.

As he watched her go an arm made it’s way around his waist, Cullen pulling him close and planting a small kiss to his jaw. “Why don’t we retire for the evening? You’ve got an early day tomorrow, Inquisitor,” he said gently and Trystane felt the beginnings of heat pooling in his stomach.

“Alright, Lion, lead the way,” he grinned into the quick kiss that was planted against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment, I love receiving feedback from you all! Critiques are welcome as well, I genuinely want to know what you all think. Thanks for those that have been reading and commenting!


	26. 24.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very NSFW. Enough said. Skip it if you don't want to read that kind of content tho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting a little better at balancing writing with school! Look y'all didn't even have to wait too long for this one. Hope you enjoy, here's a some fluff and a lil more adult content before we see Trystane off to the Western Approach!

24.3

It felt oddly nostalgic to go to the inn and grab drinks with Cullen – something that had become so routine for them in Haven hadn’t really happened since they had come to Skyhold. Sure, they had shared drinks over dinner, in the privacy of Trystane’s quarters. They hadn’t gone out of their way to spend time at the new tavern and Trystane felt something reassuring at the once-familiar sight of Cullen seated across from him at a secluded booth, flagons of beer brought their way by a serving-girl, the Commander visibly trying to relax himself. The man often took awhile to fully make himself comfortable in any space outside of his office, the training grounds, or Trystane’s quarters.

While Cullen stared intently at his flagon before grasping the iron handle and moving to take a sip, Trystane took a moment to just… look.

His Lion really didn’t know what a sight he was to behold. Straw-yellow hair like spun gold slicked back, the warm candlelight playing delicately off his creamy complexion. Trys wondered what Cullen would think if he were to voice this thought aloud. A lone bead of ale slowly descended his features as the blonde gulped down too much at once.

“Nervous?” Trystane cocked his head to the side, reaching for his flagon eventually and bringing it to his lips without breaking from his intent examination. Cullen wiped a gloved hand over the slowly trailing ale – _too bad_ , Trystane really had been mesmerized as it made its way towards his strong jawline.

“Not at all, just – not about this,” he gestured to the space around him. “Just that. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

The Inquisitor’s expression softened. “Cull,” he said gently, “I’m coming back, you know. But I understand.” _I feel it too_.

The blonde cleared his throat, flushing red under the man’s appreciative gaze. The way those grey-green eyes practically drank him in just wasn’t fair.

“I hope you’re enjoying what you see,” he amused wrily.

“I’m goin’ to enjoy it much more later,” Trys said with a smirk.

At that moment they heard footsteps approaching and the tapping of a staff on wood. “Ah, it seems we aren’t the only ones to have thought to drink tonight!” Dorian exclaimed as he approached – Cullen sputtered at the interruption, turning bright red while Trystane reluctantly broke his gaze and turned to the approaching Tevinter, accompanied by Percival.

“Hello there, Magister Pavus,” he said with a mischievous grin. Dorian almost sputtered. _Magister_ was the one jab that never failed to get his attention.

Percival gave a soft chuckle, right hand coming to rest gently on Dorian’s hip as he steered the man into a seat beside him when Cullen moved to sit next to Trystane. “Play nice, lil’ brother,” he admonished jokingly. Dorian motioned to the serving girl – Trystane didn’t know her name, since she had replaced Flissa – and she quickly brought two more flagons and refilled Trystane’s and the Commander’s.

“ ‘Ay! You lousy Arsemunchers! No one told me we were drinkin’!” Sera exclaimed from her room in the tavern and Dorian’s expression instantly soured.

“ _You_ aren’t,” he began quietly before Percival nudged him gently in the side.

“Ha-ha,” she laughed and pointed to the Tevinter. “Get us a bigger table, you idiots, how’s Bull gonna fit here? And Varric?”

Before they knew it, they had pushed two heavy oak tables together end to end and created a much larger table, and Sera had rounded up a few of the Bull’s Chargers alongside Varric, who had somehow managed to bring Cole.

“What do you do with it?” the innocent boy-spirit had inquired when Varric had shoved a mug of ale into his fist.

“You drink it, kid,” the dwarf rogue chuckled. “I wonder what Solas would say if he saw me giving you ale.” Cole took a tentative sip before sputtering and setting it down.

“The paddle is heavy, another late night at the brewery turns his arms to lead – no one will notice if this batch is barreled a little early. It’s shit anyway, and it still burns,” he says as he recovers from his shock at the taste.

“Well shit, kid, that’s not what I expected.” Varric just blinks with surprise as Trystane and miscellaneous other assembled companions laugh tentatively. Sera and Iron Bull are not amused.

Bull grunts. “What you get for giving a demon alcohol, Varric,” he intones lowly before brandishing a flagon of something _decidedly stronger_ and takes a sip. _“That’s good shit!”_ he practically growls.

The evening is much more fun than expected – Cullen even gets roped into a round of Wicked Grace or two. He might not have budged in his anti-gambling stance if it hadn’t been for Trystane’s suggestion to make it a stripping game. The Inquisitor proved to be more of a match than the commander had expected, however, and he was quickly mostly naked.

As the last hand was revealed, the blonde came up short again – it was time for him to lose his drawers, while the second-most-naked person at the table was Percival, who had lost only his waistcoat and tunic. Cullen turned beet red.

“I think it’s time we retire,” Trystane suggested with a wicked grin. He looks to Varric with a wink. “I’ll see to it he takes his forfeit there.” Percival turns a little red and Dorian and Bull laugh raucously.

“My my, Inquisitor, aren’t you a brazen fellow,” Dorian said. “Very well, you should try and escape to your quarters _discreetly_ , though I doubt anything can save you from being the talk of Skyhold in the morning.”

“Won’t that be friggin’ grand!” Sera sniggers with delight. “Cullen does a walk ‘o shame both to ‘n from your quarters tonight!”

Trystane takes Cullen’s hand and leads him to standing, grabbing the bundle of his discarded clothes and keeping them out of reach of the blonde with a delighted look.

“No cheating, Lion,” he says with a low growl. “I want to enjoy the show,” he gives a mischievous grin and _spanks the commander_ , who gets to walking with a surprised yelp, and everyone at the table falls into laughter while the Inquisitor escorts a pleasantly drunk Commander from the tavern.

They make their way through the stealthiest route, up through the tavern’s attic and through the doorway that connects into one of the battered towers of the battlements – Trystane wraps Cullen in the man’s mantle, which almost effectively conceals his undress behind the bulk and length of the coat trimmed in fur, and braces the man against the cold. Despite that, Trystane still holds the man close against him while they clumsily make their way into the blonde’s tower. The silver-haired eagle seals the doors once their inside while Cullen urges him up the ladders, Trystane taking the opportunity to go after him and watch his powerful thighs and rear flex as he lifts himself up into his chambers.

To be honest, Cullen’s chambers only saw real use when Trystane was away, and so now it was pristinely clean. This was ruined as Trystane tore the mantle off of the muscled warrior’s shoulders and tossed it aside, leaving him back in his drawers. Cullen made to untie the laced-up front of Trystane’s tunic, but Trystane grabs his wrist and looks into Cullen’s amber eyes and flushed face with a heated look, warmth lighting in his gut and traveling lower.

“You’ve a bet to forfeit,” he smirked as his free hand traveled to the drawstring of Cullen’s underdrawers, tugging the cord loose and shaking the fabric down to the blonde ankles – Cullen hissed in pleasure, a sharp intake of breath through his nose as Trystane’s hand just barely grazes the shaft of his cock, traveling lower to brush his sack while Trystane’s gaze never left him. A moment later he was impatiently tugging the blonde into a kiss, pulling Cullen’s lower lip between his and nibbling on it before slotting their lips together and letting Cullen’s insistent tongue in.

He released Cullen’s hand and wrapped one muscular arm over his man’s shoulder, behind Cullen’s neck and pulling him into the kiss while his other hand continued to tease at Cullen gently but insistently before taking the already-hard shaft in hand and stroking at it, still intentionally leaving just enough space between his grasp and Cullen’s cock that the friction was more tantalizing than anything, and he smirked into the kiss when Cullen huffed impatiently and bucked his hips into Trystane’s grip.

“Needy tonight, are we Lion?” he said. Without warning he reached both hands behind the commander and gave each cheek a firm smack, sending a startled Cullen off-balance and forward into his chest. “I bet you never imagined you’d be likin’ that,” his voice was so low it was always a growl, but his eyes and his smile were nothing but loving. Maybe only slightly teasing.

“I’m going to have to get you back for that, sir,” Cullen said with the flush deepening across his cheek. _He really likes calling me that,_ Trystane mused silently.

“Of course, Lion,” he smirked again before reaching even lower and, again surprising the blonde, lifted him up to his waste and reclaiming his lips before striding over to Cullen’s bed and setting the blonde down.

“Fuck, Trys, never thought I’d get picked up like that,” Cullen said, staring at Trystane with incredible arousal flushing his features deep red, his breath coming in pants and his pupils dilated. Trystane was right when he had expected that someone uptight like Cullen might enjoy being… manhandled, for lack of a better term.

Trystane took a step back, slowly undoing the lace of his tunic and shrugging it off, loving every second of the blonde hungrily drinking in the sight of him – he wore no undershirt tonight and the moonlight coming in through Cullen’s window practically glowed on his pale skin and long silver hair, which had come out of its braid and lay in shining smooth locks on his bare chest and back. Cullen shifted forward on the bed but Trystane stilled him gently.

“Just watch, Lion,” he said and Cullen swallowed thickly at how heady and charged the air between them was – it was intoxicating.

He undid his belt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor and thumbed his trousers loose so that they fell around his ankle, turning deliberately to face away from the blonde so that the man could watch the dark grey fabric fall to reveal the smooth, full curvature of his arse.

Cullen was almost struck dumb – he had never given himself the opportunities to experience things like this. Sex was never love-making to him, never sensual, never something granted the proper time and attention to make it truly satisfactory, and he found that just watching Trystane undress himself so deliberately was more fulfilling that any night he’d spent in Kirkwall’s Red District. He allowed himself the indulgence of trailing his eyes down from the Inquisitor’s masculine broad, muscular shoulders, down the path of a few locks of shimmering silver hair to the small of his back, knit muscles playing in shadows cast by the moonlight, and down to the man’s rear and powerful thighs.

“I hope you’re enjoying what you see,” Trystane said as he turned round to face him again, echoing Cullen’s own previous statement. Cullen couldn’t respond as he greedily took in the way the white light splayed across Trystane’s lithe form, his muscled chest and narrow hips. This was perfection. Trystane took a few steps forward, almost too slowly, before he settled both arms onto Cullen’s shoulder and settled onto the warrior’s lap, straddling him and pulling him into a kiss unlike their earlier one, but perhaps even more passionate in its wet, gentle heat, the way he trailed his lips from Cullen’s and then across his jaw and down his neck, stopping occasionally to suck and nibble on the sensitive skin of Cullen’s collar or neck.

“Maker, Trys…” Cullen had the sudden desire to take control, show some initiative, and he brought his arms up to Trystane’s waist and prepared to flip him onto his back.

That was until the Inquisitor bucked his hips against Cullen’s, and most of the thoughts in his head fled instantly. He ground his hips back instantly and soon they had found a rhythm, slotting themselves together so that their cocks rubbed against each other and Cullen could feel Trystane’s growing erection sliding against his abdomen, could feel the friction of Trystane’s thighs on his own, and it was more stimulation that he might have ever imagined.

“Fuck, Cullen, I don’t even know how much longer I can hold on,” Trystane grunted while Cullen’s hands gripped his arse firmly and their rhythm had grown bolder, more insistent. “I want you to take me, Lion.”

Cullen almost stopped in his tracks.

“Are you sure?” he asked, leaning back so he could look at Trystane’s grey-green eyes, flushed skin and his hair slowly growing wild with their energetic affection.

“Yes, Cullen, don’t overthink this,” he said and planted an quick kiss on Cullen’s neck, reveling in the scent that Cullen had applied there earlier. He would have to make sure they bought more. “Do you have…?” he asked and Cullen nodded.

The blonde gripped Trystane’s hips again, lifting him with _impressive_ ease and turning, settling the man down on his back before he paced over quickly, impatiently, to his chest of drawers and making a mess of it before he found a small vial of oil.

When he turned back to Trystane he almost stopped in his tracks again at the sight before him. Trystane was on his back across Cullen’s bed, hair spread out in a halo of silver around him, knees spread and planted on either side of him, his face and neck flushed red while he watched Cullen with the same look of adoration and heavy desire. Cullen practically tripped over himself getting back to the bed, hooking an arm around one of Trys’ legs and pulling him to the edge of the bed. He set to work immediately, planting his lips on the inside of Trystane’s thigh and biting just until he heard Trystane gasp before he began to lick and suck at the sensitive skin while he began to oil up his finger, inserting it tentatively and gradually working through the ring of muscle – Trystane was moaning by the time his second finger was inserted, an a scissoring motion worked him looser and looser.

Trystane’s legs had fallen completely flat either side of him, and Cullen was never more glad about how flexible the man was – he had opened up completely and his eyes were screwed shut with pleasure.

“Cullen, maker, you better take me _now_ ,” he hissed and urged Cullen to standing, bringing their mouths crashing together while Cullen tipped more of the oil onto his cock, slicking it up and pressing the tip against Trystane’s opening.

“Oh, you want this?” he smirked, grazing the tip across the entrance and earning a frustrated moan from the Inquisitor.

Suddenly Trystane’s eyes opened in a defiant smirk. “That’s an order, Commander,” he said with a mischievous grin and Cullen felt a wave of heat flood his body.

“Yes, sir!” he growled and thrust himself into Trystane, and the sound that escaped the man’s lips was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed. He withdrew slowly but not completely before thrusting back in again, Trystane’s hands clutching at Cullen’s thighs while he began to pick up speed and strength, and relished in the sound of skin colliding with skin.

Somehow in his addled brain he got another idea, and without warning he picked Trystane up, still inside the man and in a quick but slightly-awkward movement – Trystane eventually got what Cullenw wanted him to do – the man was on his knees and Cullen hooked one hand over his thigh, picking up a punishing pace while Trystane’s chest dropped down to the sheets and his hands clutched the mattress with barely bridled pleasure.

Then Cullen reared one hand back and brought it across Trystane’s ass in time to his next thrust, and the gasp he earned from the Inquisitor sent another wave of pleasure through him.

“You like that, sir?” he asked mischievously as he did it again, punctuating every few of his thrusts until a bright red mark was spreading across the silver-haired man’s bare ass while Cullen’s cock thrust into him.

“Cullen, I can’t take much more,” Trystane gasped. “I- Maker – Fuck!” he climaxed loudly and Cullen, who had been teetering on the edge himself, was sent over and before he knew it he shot his load into the Inquisitor’s arse.

He started to draw out, alarmed momentarily before Trystane gripped at his thigh and held him in place.

“I want it, Cullen,” he almost growled and, suddenly bolder, Cullen thrust into him experimentally – his cock was so sensitive now, and the idea of thrusting his load even deeper into his lover was enough to send him doubled-over with pleasure.

They were still for a few moments, riding through intense climaxes before Trystane leaned forward and twisted around, down onto the sheets. Cullen collapsed on top of him, arms snaking around Trystane’s waist as the man nuzzled into his neck.

“Maker, Lion,” he said, his voice husky and subdued. “You’re incredible.”

Cullen planted a lazy kiss to Trystane’s forehead and then to his lips. “I love you,” he whispered into Trystane’s lips.

“I love you, Cullen,” Trystane smiled and pulled Cullen closer. “Now let’s sleep,” he sighed and found that the statement wasn’t necessary. Cullen was already gently snoring against his shoulder.

Trystane huffed a silent laugh and allowed himself to drift asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was interesting to write. Hope y'all enjoyed it! Feel free to comment or critique, kudos are also appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!


	27. 25.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane and his companions make their way to the Western Approach, and interrupt a Tevinter ritual.
> 
> by the way, I realized when I posted the last chapter that something about me doing 24.1, 24.2 and 24.3 screwed with the order of the chapters. I fixed it, but I'm sorry of the chapters were out of order for awhile!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about how irregular my posting schedule is, but something is better than nothing! Enjoy!

25.1

'“Welcome to the Western Approach, Inquisitor. I had prepared an entire spiel for you about how awful it is here but… I can tell from looking at you that I can skip it.”

If he had been in better spirits, Trystane would have laughed along with Scout Harding at the state that he and his companions were in. Now, though, he was most certainly not in the mood. The journey across southern Thedas from Skyhold to the Western Approach had been difficult, to say the very least.

They had had to skirt around the edges of the Dales, the ongoing conflict there making it difficult for them to pass; Trystane had sent word back to Cullen that troops needed to be sent to the Exalted Plains with haste, and made a mental note that once their business with the Wardens was complete it was important to stabilize that conflict. They had gathered that news of the cease-fire hadn’t made it onto the actual, er, front lines.

Still, they had managed to get entangled in scattered fights with bandits, deserters – Freemen of the Dales, they called themselves – and even Venatori along the way. Once they had passed through southern Orlais and into the Approach, things hadn’t gotten better.

The terrain was difficult to cross, all rocky outcroppings, sandy crags and treacherous cliffs. Sunlight and heat were constants here, and the night was somehow just as punishing. Heat absorbed by the sand during the day radiated into the night air so that they never got a reprieve from the heat. The Inquisitor and his companions had had to stop more times than they wanted to already to refill on water supplies that were going faster than they wanted.

It had become so unbearable that Trystane had tried to cast a wind charm to keep the area around them cool – this had inadvertently created a sandstorm, and they had had to seek cover for a day. Not his proudest moment, and one that Varric had decided was _very much_ worth annotating.

Trystane had made a mental note to ask Leliana to acquire Varric’s journals sometime.

Now they found themselves in the Inquisition forward camp, and the difficulties of their journey were very evident on their sleepless faces, in their sandy and worn clothes, and their irate moods.

“The Maker’s forsaken this entire region,” Trys wiped the sweat from his brow as he approached the scout.

“As the Herald of Andraste, maybe you can decree this place officially not worth our time and we can all pack up?” Harding was joking, but in a way that suggested she wouldn’t mind if she was taken seriously.

“If only, lass, it might be surprisin’ to learn that I have the least say over this nonsense in the entire Inquisition,” Trystane somehow managed to huff a laugh through his fatigue.

Trystane dismissed his companions to catch up on rest, briefly, so that they might be at least a little refreshed before they made their way for the tevinter ritual tower nearby. This was the rendez-vous established for their party to meet with Hawke and Stroud.

Dorian and Percival immediately made way for a nearby stream to bathe while Cassandra found a rare patch of shade beneath one of the sparse trees in the canyon and had retrieved a book to read. Sera had crawled into a tent to nap, and Varric was trying to convince Cole to try out sleeping as well. The confused but well-intentioned spirit was trying his best but couldn’t understand the point.

In the meantime, Trystane was debriefed by Scout Harding. As it turned out, there were multiple points of interest in the area. They had located an old keep relatively near the ritual tower. Old and Tevinter, its use was lost to time and its strategic relevance was a mystery. Griffon Keep wasn’t really large enough to be a fortress, but it was larger than a forward operating base. Harding’s scouts reported that it was only garrisoned by a handful of Venatori at the moment – Trystane agreed that it would be strategically useful in their upcoming conflict with the Venatori in the region to secure it and turn it into a supply post.

There was a cave system nearby where red lyrium was supposedly being smuggled, and that was an _immediate_ source of concern for the Inquisitor. He decided that they would hit it on their way to meet Hawke.

There was yet another Tevinter ruin nearby where there had been suspicious Venatori activity; crates full of magical supplies being carted in, and no one leaving. Trystane supposed it wasn’t surprising for the Venatori to be interested in anything of the old Empire, but they had to be stopped, nevertheless. The cult was like a pest; if it wasn’t eliminated at every possible turn then it would spread like a plague.

The final note on Harding’s list was that a High Dragon had been spotted nearby, which was a major concern for any future attempts to establish a presence in the Approach. Trystane was almost excited to fight it, remembering the rush of defeating his first High Dragon. He had grown to understand why dragon hunting was such a legendary feat.

Once the briefing was done, Trystane allowed his companions just another hour or so to rest, and then they begrudgingly set to work.

***

Trystane puzzled over the sketched map that Harding had given him. “Are you sure it isn’t the one on the right? The ramp up to there is broken,” Varric asked.

“Says ‘ere it’s the left,” Trystane responded. “Venatori arseholes probably take the ramp down to hide it.”

“There’s no reason why they can’t be storing Red Lyrium in both tunnels,” Dorian suggested impatiently. “I suggest we split up and hit both of them.”

While Trystane thought it over, Dorian paced just ahead of the collapsed ramp into the tunnel on their left; it was one of two apertures leading into the rock face ahead of them, supposedly the site where Venatori had been keeping red lyrium. With a gesture and the electric scent of magic searing the air, he lifted a set of fallen beams and planks into a rickety ramp up to the platform above them.

“Alright, let’s do it,” Trystane nodded. “But no one go to far in. Get in, hit the lyrium, get out, so we don’ stay separated. Dorian, Percival, Sera, on the right. Cassandra, Cole, Varric, with me. Let’s go.”

He led his team up the ramp and down a narrow, twisting rock passage. It was dim but still lit enough to see, and it was instantly cool here. In other circumstances Trystane would have reveled in the chilled draft moving through the corridor. This was an ideal location for smugglers – he gestured to the others to keep quiet so that they could surprise anyone inside.

None of them were prepared to find that the cavern was mostly empty of people. Entering the chamber, they found scattered wooden platforms and tables, a few chests of supplies and notes. In the center of it all, a large conical spire of red lyrium and at the base of it… corpses?

Venatori. Covered in strange puncture wounds, bizarrely well-preserved.

It was as Trystane was examining the bodies that they heard the shuffling of limbs and weight that certainly wasn’t human and, spear at the ready, he spotted the culprits behind the deaths of the Venatori.

“Giant Spiders. Somehow even more annoying than Tevinter cultists!” Varric exclaimed as a bolt flew from Bianca’s mechanical aperture.

Trystane fade-stepped ahead of the group, determined to prevent the spiders from closing ranks and attacking Cole or Varric. His spear found its target in the eyes of the first of six of the giant arachnids. The strike was true, and it was a little sickening the way that the weight of the spear collapsed the spider once the exoskeleton was pierced, as if he was stabbing the world’s most terrifying pastry.

Two of the spiders lunged at him from either side; he used his fade-step to evade before bringing the weighted end of the weapon down on the thorax of one of them just as Cassandra caught up to bring her shield bearing down into the other. In the periphery of his vision, Trystane registered Cole flitting back and forth between two other spiders, keeping them occupied without engaging them too directly. It was too risky for someone of his fighting style to get in too close to the monsters without risking being vulnerable, so he held their attention until Trystane and Cassandra were able to deal with them.

The fight was over quickly, and six spider corpses littered the cavern floor. They were becoming quite the fluid team, the Inquisitor and all his companions. The many trials they had surpassed together, the time they had spent bonding, was molding them into a cohesive unit. They understood each others’ fighting styles intuitively and adapted to counter each others’ weaknesses.

With the spiders dealt with, Trystane was free to examine the room some more. Firstly he moved to a table on the side, which detailed plans to use these tunnels to set up a red lyrium mining operation. The main concern of the venatori seemed to be how to acquire the ‘raw material’ to grow the substance. What could that have been? The Approach was deprived of any number of natural resources. Trystane pocketed the note and some other correspondence he found; it would make for useful intelligence to give to Leliana.

Red Lyrium still dominated the center of the cavern, and every time it caught his eye his expression twisted with disgust. _Vile,_ he thought. Everything about it was wrong. It radiated heat into the otherwise cool cavern, it glowed faintly with a menacing red aura. If he got close enough, Trystane swore he could almost feel an inaudible but somehow _palpable_ pulsing sensation. Without hesitation he lit the red lyrium in bright blue veilfire.

“Good riddance,” Varric sounded like he could have spat at the mound of burning veilfire, the flickering blue always carrying with it this hypnotic movement and sound like the memory of sound, like the suggestion of motion that played with your minds eye.

None of them had any reason to delay, so they left the way they came. Percival and his group had already arrived back and were waiting.

“What took so long? Find any baddies?” Sera asked, almost tauntingly, from where they rested in the scarce shade of the rock face.

“Giant spiders,” Varric groaned. “You?”

“Nothin’,” Sera chuckled. “Our cave was empty! There was red lyrium ‘n shite, which Moustache here blew up, but no baddies.”

The dwarven rogue groaned. “Next time, I’m in the group that _doesn’t_ go with Silver. No offense,” he interjected to Trystane’s mock wounded expression. “Just that you have the _worst_ luck in Thedas, pal.”

Trystane laughed it off; he wasn’t wrong.

***

It took them another hour’s trek through the sand before the ritual tower came into view. It was still another hour before they actually reached it – distance in this wasteland was more of a concept that a reality; the only thing punctuating their endless trudging through the hot sands was the occasional attack by hyenas and quillbacks. The beasts were the most bizarre sight that any of the assembled Inquisition agents had ever seen. They were four-legged with dark red, leathery skin, thick and resilient. Massive in size, they stood almost up to Trystane’s chest while on all fours, with powerful haunches. Most bizarre, though, was that they had hooked beaks and spiky, almost sharp feathers protruding sparsely from their backs and spines. With all honesty, they looked like a tevinter experiment gone wrong.

Aside from their being hounded by bizarre desert monsters every twenty-or-some-odd minutes, they did eventually find their way to the ritual tower.

It was an odd structure, seemingly incomplete. Trystane could only assume that the bulk of it had fallin into ruin. It was on a platform that extended into the Abyssal Rift: a chasm of untold depth, rumoured to fall as far into the earth as the Deep Roads themselves. It consisted of a sandstone-and-iron arch, the last vestige of some kind of auxiliary building, with a bridge that crossed over onto the pillar of sandstone where the remains of the tower itself stood.

The body of the tower no longer remained; in its stead, there was what was once the ground floor of the structure that was now an open courtyard, flanked by crumbling sandstone walls on all sides and a platform at the far end.

“I’m glad you made it Inquisitor,” Stroud addressed him as their group approached the structure. “I fear they have already begun the ritual.”

Stroud and Hawke were crouched on their side of the sandstone arch, situated in such a way that they could peak through the aperture and watch the situation unfold without being seen.

“It has to be blood magic. I just hope we can stop them before it goes too far,” Hawke was visibly angry, wringing his hands in frustration. Varric was quick to make his way to his friend’s side. “You take point,” Hawke stood, retrieving his greatsword from its position on his back. “I’ll guard your back.”

The Inquisition group crossed the bridge with no issue – the Wardens had posted no guards, no watchmen. As they drew closer they could heaer voices from the platform.

“N- no!”

“Warden-Commander Clarel’s orders were clear,” a snide, reproachful voice.

“This is wrong!”

“Remember your oaths – In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death…”

“I’m sorry,” a third voice, grave and muted. The sound of a blade rending cloth and flesh.

“Sacrifice.”

Approaching the stone steps up to the base of the old tower, Trystane caught the stench of blood and decay. The oppressive heat made it much, much worse. Underneath it all, he could feel the strands of magic pulling at the Veil, so much more sensitive to it now that the Anchor was fully active. It flared along his palm, buzzing with agitated static.

“Whatever they’re doing up there, it must stop now,” Trystane hissed as he began to ascend the steps.

They ascended the platform in time to see the corpse drop to the ground, for Trystane to feel its drained life force tugging at the Veil, for those gathered to see a demon of Rage rise from the felled Warden’s body.

“Inquisitor! What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.” The snide voice belonged to a Tevinter, then. _Venatori, no doubt._ He looked like a sniveling villain, oily black hair pulled back over a pale face whose features did nothing to hide his hostility. Brows furrowed, nose scrunched as if he had smelled something foul. Perhaps it was the mounds of corpses littering the ritual platform.

“You are no Warden,” Stroud’s posture was aggressive, as was every one of their party’s. Tone accusing.

“But you are,” Erimond’s condescending response pierced the courtyard air; the stench of death was overwhelming here and it was all Trystane could do not to gag. “The one Clarel let slip. And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?”

Trystane looked over to the ranks of wardens, accompanied by _demons_ , no less, and alarm rose like bile in his throat. “Wardens, this man is deceiving you! You cannot give into his plan!”

“Oh, I don’t believe they can hear you,” Erimond almost sounded _amused_. Trystane wanted to spit in his face, kick that smug look off of him. “Wardens, hands _up_!”

Trystane couldn’t accept what he saw as all of the wardens – all mages, it seems – raised their hands in unison, turned to look at him in unison, lowered their hands again in unison.

“Corypheus has taken their minds!” Stroud took a step back, looking frantically around their scattered ranks, alarmed.

“They did this to themselves,” Erimond sneered. Trystane wanted to kill him now – everyone did – but he made a small motion for them to hold back. For now. If this Venatori agent, whoever he was, was in the mood to tell them what he knew, then they would let him. “You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked _everywhere_ for help.” Erimond was savoring his story, relishing in the anger and conflict playing across their expressions.

“Even Tevinter,” Stroud concluded.

“Yes. And since it was my master who put that Calling into their heads, we in the Venatori were prepared! I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and _together_ , we came up with a little plan…” Erimond paced back and forth on his little platform. He had a flair for drama, it seemed, and this was his little stage. Trystane only had to tolerate this long enough to get information from him. _Then I’ll skewer that little rat_.

“Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they awaken.”

This was sounding too familiar. Trystane’s memory flashed back to Redcliffe, to Therinfal, the future that he saw both in the rift in time and then again in Envy’s world.

“Corypheus and his army of demons – I saw this back at Redcliffe,” Trystane practically growled.

This, for once, seemed to put the Venatori agent off-balance. “And now you see how it begins,” he tried to recover his footing, his arrogance played back up. “Well unfortunately for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught the mages has a side effect – they are now my master’s slaves. This was a test – once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, our army will sweep across Thedas, conquering every inch of it and returning it to the rightful ownership of Tevinter.”

Trystane could hear Dorian’s dramatic, pained sigh somewhere behind him.

“No. You’re done here,” Trystane growled, preparing himself to go on the offensive, when he felt a searing pain up his arm from the mark. He knelt, winded, clutching at his hand, and looked to Erimond whose outstretched hand was creating a tether of green magic to his mark. He hissed in pain.

“My master taught me how to deal with you. I think your head on a pike will be a fitting gift, don’t you think?” Erimond grinned maliciously.

But Trystane understood the mark better than this _pretentious Venatori prick._ He stood, with effort, extending his marked hand out to Erimond and sending a vicious bolt of magic back along the tether that Erimond had established; the energy exploded in the Tevinter’s hand and he collapsed backward, falling flat on his arse, panic around his expression. “Kill them!” he screamed at the bound wardens before scrambling away.

Trystane had no time to focus on catching Erimond – all at once the demons and wardens turned to close in on him, and he knew that this was too much for them to handle all at once. He reached out with the Anchor again, feeling the weave of the Veil in front of him and delicately pulling at its threads…

In the air space between the Wardens and their demons a small Rift appeared, pulling them all towards its center where they collided before being flung to the ground in a tangled mess of demonic residue and panicked limbs. This gave them the advantage they needed. Hawke, Stroud, Cassandra and Percival immediately pressed the attack, Dorian imbuing their weapons with flame while Trystane threw a barrier over them all. Varric flanked them, looking for open shots while Dorian did the same. It was risky to throw spells around when their companions were locked in close-quarters combat.

Trystane chose not to close ranks, instead supporting his companions by bolstering their strength, replenishing their energy and suppressing the magic of the bound Wardens – sympathetic magic was subtle, but it had the potential to be potent as a support in situations like these.

The fight was over quickly, mounds of demonic residue and the corpses of felled Wardens scattered around the ruins of the tevinter tower. No one spoke for a long moment while they checked themselves for injuries, until Hawke finally spoke.

“They died for no reason – refused to listen.”

Stroud heaved a deep sigh, regretful. “You were correct, Hawke – it was blood magic. Through this ritual, their mages are slaves to Corypheus.”

“And the warriors?” Hawke asked, looking between Stroud and the Inquisitor. No one answered, and he hung his head, a pained expression falling across his features. “Of course. Sacrificed in the ritual. What a waste.”

“Blood sacrifice – summonin’ demons – who looks at this an’ thinks it’s right?” Trystane ran a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his sweat-soaked face, his voice laced with frustration. _How could they be so stupid?_

“The fearful and the foolish,” Hawke’s answer is blunt and certain.

“The Wardens were wrong, Hawke, but they had their reasons.” Stroud’s tone and his expression make it clear that this is not the first time the issue has been discussed between the two.

“All blood mages do,” Hawke practically hissed. His arms folded across his chest. “Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify their bad decisions. And it _never_ matters. In the end, you are alone with your actions.”

Stroud seemed to want to side-step the argument, instead turning to Trystane. “I believe I know where the Wardens are hiding, Inquisitor. Based on the direction Erimond fled in, they are at an abandoned Warden fortress. Adamant.”

“I see… that makes sense,” Trystane feels dazed by what’s just happened. He needs to process it.

“The warden and I will scout out Adamant. We’ll confirm that the Wardens are there and meet you back at Skyhold,” Hawke says. Trystane doesn’t miss how he calls Stroud _the warden._ His anger is showing.

“I understand. I’ll work with the Cullen and the others to get troops and supplies ready and mobilized,” Trystane forces himself to _focus_. Now is not the time to fall to distress. “Thank you both.”

They all cross the bridge back in silence. Cole is saying something to Stroud, trying to comfort him. Trystane doesn’t really listen; the mixture of emotions bubbling up in him is threatening to choke him. Without any real intention, he turns and walks over to the edge of the Abyssal Rift where he can look at the entire tower – the bridge, the column of sandstone upon which the tower sits.

His rage threatens to overflow, and he doesn’t really think as he reaches out with his marked hand towards the tower. He feels the Anchor spark to life, feeding on his anger. He feels the energy flowing through it, so much he can almost feel the veil stretching around him – distantly, he’s aware of Dorian’s voice, alarmed.

The air splits with the sound of splintering rock, a sharp sound of stone colliding with stone and a guttural grinding sound that echoes throughout the darkening desert sky – a rift splits the earth beneath the tower and then swallows itself, taking an enormous chunk of sandstone out of the column that supports the Tower. In the following moment, all is quiet.

In the next moment, the stone audibly groans under the weight of the tower and collapses; Trystane watches while the ruins disintegrate and fall into the Abyssal Rift, so far that they don’t even hear it collide with the stone below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your feedback is always appreciated.


	28. 25.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After uncovering the warden plot with Stroud's help, the Inquisitor must move on to his next objective in the Approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I bet you aren't as surprised as I am. This semester has been hell but it's almost over, and I'm wanting to get back into the swing of this fic! Hope you all enjoy the update!

The mood was somber while Trystane and his companions set to, once again, traversing the impressive expanse of sandstone and drifting sand. They had crossed the path of a Rift, dealt with it in silence, and moved on; it proved no more impressive a threat than a rage demon and a handful of shades, nothing in the wake of their anger.

Having plenty of time still in their day, Trystane decided that they should move toward their next objective: Griffon Keep. It was a ways north and slightly east of their current position, maybe twelve hours’ journey. They would travel until near sundown, find a suitable place to hunker down for the night, and then set camp.

Among all of them, the most dejected was easily Varric – the dwarf had a special place in his heart reserved for Hawke, and he hated anything that brought undue stress on the Champion of Kirkwall. He knew that this had clearly affected his friend – blood magic was a sensitive, sore topic for him.

While they walked, Trystane drew alongside his companion, slowing his pace to match his shorter friend’s stride.

“Varric,” he began, his voice rough from hours of silence. “I’m sorry about this. I know you never wanted Hawke to be put through such things again.”

The redheaded rogue didn’t answer for a long moment, such that Trystane was prepared to move on and give him his space. When he did speak, it wasn’t at all what Trys expected.

“In Kirkwall, his mother was killed by a blood mage. Used in a twisted, vile ritual. The sick bastard was trying to use blood magic to … reconstruct… his dead lover.”

Trystane didn’t know what to say to that, and Varric continued. “It broke something in him, and he was never the same after that. I don’t think he ever looked at a mage the same way after that, but somehow he pushed past his own anger and kept trying to help.”

“Hawke only ever tried to be an ally to the mages of Kirkwall, to help them move past the abuse they endured and earn the respect of the city’s people. But he was betrayed at every pass – mage refugees he tried to help were led by a blood mage, one of his companions turned to blood magic, and even Orsino used blood magic to turn himself into a monster. You can see why…” Varric sighed. “It left him with a very strong stance against the stuff.”

Trystane only nodded for a moment. “I understand. I’m not claiming to understand specifically what Hawke ‘as gone through – just that I understand hating blood magic. In Ostwick, when our circle fell, it was brutal. No one knew I was a mage, just a knight in my father’s employ, and naturally I was called in with the others to assist in stabilizing the crisis. There were more than a few abominations in their rank. I don’t think I’ll ever know how lucky I was to be spared a life in the Circle.”

“Yeah,” Varric sighed. “Everything in Thedas is shit, huh?”

The Inquisitor huffed a quiet laugh and nodded, the two drifting comfortably back into silence.

Though, straw-blonde hair and warm amber eyes came to his mind’s eye, and he couldn’t help but think that not _everything_ was shit.

Trystane held out his palm, feeling the warmth of magic pooling in the air there, unlike the electric buzz of most magic. A moment later, a single moth landed in the palm of his hand, and his fingers clasped it gently. He brought it to his lips and whispered against his closed hand, weaving magic into the delicate aura of the being held there, and then released it back into the air.

***

Six hours passed, the sun beginning to dip lazily into the orange haze of sunset. The Inquisition companions were weary, but beyond feeling it. They had taken a handful of breaks to sit and rest their feet, but resting was almost as awful as marching under the ever-present blanket of heat and stale, unmoving air. Trystane felt that he could count on one hand the number of times that a breeze had stirred some cool air across his burning skin, but didn’t dare try to cast another wind charm after the disastrous result of the first.

Their trip passed in aching monotony, unpierced even by quillback or hyena attacks, bandits or any other manner of foulness. The Abyssal Rift was a constant companion to their left, within their vision but deceptively far away. Across it, the ghost of scorched sandstone peaks.

On their right, the expanse of sand dipped into a much shallower valley than the Rift – consulting with his map, Trystane saw that Harding had noted an oasis there, a watering hole at the end of a mostly subterranean river. It fed a stand of trees and elfroot, and it marked approximately the halfway point between the ritual tower and Griffon Keep.

Ahead of them, they saw the telltale smoke of a camp drifing above the hazy silhouette of a few tents. _A camp of some sort? Clearly not Inquisition._

The camp stood next to yet another collapsed tevinter structure – the desert really was littered with the abandoned towers, keeps and other vestiges of the extent of Ancient Tevinter’s reach. Its original purpose was lost to time. Whatever it was, all that remained was a sun-bleached sandstone tower, collared in iron, crumbling over what looked like it may have been a perimeter wall of sorts. Now the perhaps-wall was reduced to a sole archway and on either side of it, crumbling piles of bricks. Perhaps, ages ago, a siege took down the rest of the structure. Perhaps the persistent heat and sun wore it doen to almost nothing. Now it did little but to provide the bare minimum of shade for what was now clearly a Venatori camp.

The perfect focus for their collective frustrations.

One mage, two warriors, one rogue. The mage was dead before they understood what was happening – a fade step took Trystane within range of the man and in a flash of silver his spear skewered him through the back. He whipped the spear back down, the force of the movement removing his previous prey from the blade and sending him into the sand with a thud; at the same time, a bolt landed with a sickening squelch in the chest of their rogue, quickly followed by a follow-up strike of Trystane’s spear, the weighted butt of the weapon crushing the skull of the warrior who had been flanking their mage.

The remaining warrior scarcely had time to shout before Cole, the barest shadow, flickered behind him and sliced his throat.

It took a couple of moments for the others to catch up to himself and Cole, and Cassandra seemed almost irate.

“I don’t even know why the rest of us are here – between the two of you and one archer, there is hardly any need,” she said acerbicly.

“Now Cassandra, your blade will meet Venatori flesh soon enough,” Trystane said with the bare minimum of a grin; even his light-heartedness was oppressed by the heat, by fatigue, and mostly by their business here with the wardens. “Anyway, seein’ as there’s already a camp ‘ere, I say we stop for the night. We’ll make Griffon Keep in about four hours in th’mornin’, and we’ll all get to fight our fill,” he finished with a sigh, disappearing into the nearest tent and dropping his pack inside the entrance.

***

The morning came too soon – Trystane rose with the break of dawn, unwilling to compromise in his daily routine even in the field. He left his tent groggy, spear in hand, the first awake with the exception of Cole. The spirit – man – something other entirely – never slept.

“Inquisitor,” Cole now appeared at his side, his voice is gentle and quiet like a sigh, giving the impression that he never said anything at all. Trys was accustomed to it. “You’re restless. You don’t like being here, don’t like thinking of the Wardens. Desperate, dangerous, almost feral in their fear, you hope that they have not gone too far.”

The Inquisitor said nothing to that for a moment, nearly thought. It often took some deciphering to have a conversation with Cole, but he was adapting to it steadily.

“You’re right, I don’ like thinkin’ about the Wardens,” he sighed. “Thank you for bringing it up.”

“You hope that they can still be redeemed.”

“Of course I do. I’m not here to kill all the Wardens. I’m here to save them from Corypheus, from themselves.”

“They are partially him – their shape is almost as alike to his as they are to ours. How can you save them from that?”

Another long silence. Trystane had settled his spear against the side of the crumbling ruin and was now stretching in its shadow. He braced his leg against the stone, his foot up and level with his shoulder, and pressed into it, relishing in the singular sensation of stretching the muscle there.

“I don’ know, Cole. It’s like with the dyin’ woman, back in Skyhold. We don’ know how to save ‘em, if we can save ‘em, until we try. Until we exhaust our options. If we give up before we’ve even attempted it, we’ve done ‘em a great disservice.”

His response was met with silence. Cole had very likely disappeared to contemplate his words. Their conversations often ended like that, abruptly and seemingly without conclusion. Trystane could only conclude that Cole was interested in learning about people, in the way that they thought – for all the spirit could read their minds and emotions, he still understood little about why they thought the way they did, why they felt the way they did. Cole often came to him with questions on difficult subjects, particularly when he was dissatisfied with the answers that Varric or Solas would give him. Trystane wondered if the spirit could sense the others’ apparent motivation to shape Cole’s perception with their responses. Trystane, however, met Cole’s questioning head-on and without motive.

They had developed a peculiar but trusting bond.

Over the next hour or so the other companions gradually woke – first Cassandra, then Dorian and Varric. Percival and Sera were the last to wake, the elven rogue complaining loudly about the heat with her first conscious breath.

In the next half-hour they ate and, as the others raided the leftover Venatori supplies and notes, Trystane wrote a couple of missives. The first to his advisors, with oders to muster men, supplies and siege equipment and begin the journey to the Approach, and with a brief update on his progress. The second was to Harding, with orders to secure a camp at their current location, as well as to prepare men to move to Griffon Keep once he’ll have taken it. It only took a bit of magic to beckon a raven to his position, give it the missives and send it on its way.

***

It was pathetic, really.

If the Venatori really wanted to keep Griffon Keep, then why was the front gate so lightly guarded? Two archers posted on the parapets overlooking the gate – two soldiers with them, ready to leap down the crumbling wall down to the ground where two more warriors waited.

After everything else they had encountered, this was child’s play. A bolt through an archer’s heart was all the warning had before the other bowman was torn from the sandstorm platform by a ripple in the Veil, rogue energy gripping his body and sending him crashing to the ground like a rag doll.

In the next moment the Inquisition is upon the remaining soldiers; four warriors is nothing before their righteous fury. This is for the Grey Wardens as much as it is for the Inquisition, a preamble to the justice they will bring upon Livius Erimond of Vyrantium. The hot sand is littered with venatori corpses, hot steel, and blood muddled by the gritty earth.

“What is our plan?” Cassandra asks as they regroup in front of the gate, Trystaine appraising it for a thoughtful moment.

“March in, kick Venatori arse?” Sera interjects, and the Inquisitor nods.

A silverite-mailed glove reaches out for the heavy wood entrance – it might look solid, but the Venatori have clearly not improved the facility they’ve claimed, and the wood is likely halfway rotted. Nothing but the arid heat has kept it from collapsing entirely. Trys’ suspicions are confirmed when the door buckles and then caves in a shower of splinters under the barest of a ripple in the Veil across its threshold.

Dorian scoffs, watching him carefully. “You certainly seem to be taking to this new skill of yours, Inquisitor!”

He nods enthusiastically. “Quite useful, Magister Pavus!” he calls behind him as he advances through the entrance – Cassandra, Varric and Cole have already moved on ahead.

They find themselves in a broad courtyard, sandstone walls surrounding what might have once been a brick or stone square, but which has been worn mostly down into sand. It’s empty, mostly, save a couple of tents and crates. Upon closer inspection, the Keep looks like a mistake of architecture – almost as if whoever built it was deliberately exercising the least efficient method for arranging this space, all intersecting walls, corridors leading to nowhere, jutting platforms and multi-storied bastions that didn’t connect to each other. If the Venatori had bothered to properly man this place, it might have actually posed a problem for them; there were so many nooks and crannies that a proper archer would have a field day.

Luckily for them, the Venatori were vastly underprepared to properly utilize their resources.

Two agents – posted as lookouts, bafflingly – were descending a scaffolding up ahead and to either side of the courtyard. As soon as their feet touched the stone they took off running ahead, towards a series of steps leading to a higher level of the courtyard, presumably. They didn’t make it far, arrows and bolts from the two Inquisition archers striking their targets in the back before they could properly warn the rest of the garrisoned cultists.

Trystane allowed the barest hint of adrenaline to flood his system before he began to properly advance toward the far end of the courtyard. _Let’s get this over with,_ he thought drily.

Silver glinted under the oppressive sun as his fade-step brought him to the end of the courtyard, racing ahead of his companions. He preferred to end his fights quickly, striking forth into enemy ranks like a bolt of lightning. It was disorienting, and fast-paced, and by the time most opponents were aware of what was happening he was already upon them, moving through their ranks like a deadly wind. He was almost dancerly in his swift, assured movement.

Up ahead, a wooden plank bridge connected two towers that overlook the old Tevinter ruin; reaching out with the mark, he opened up a small aperture between the fibres of the Veil, and the resulting hole swallowed a chunk of the bridge – the force of the hole closing was enough to send an archer flying from one of the flanking towers – two more fell to their deaths from the sandstone heights as the bridge collapsed under the strain of its own weight while a generous chunk of its center was missing.

The courtyard – which could be hardly called a courtyard anymore, and was now more of an open-air corridor – turned to his left, up a few steps towards yet another platform littered with Venatori warriors and what looked to be two mages. In a flash of silver Trystane was upon them, spear impaling a warrior who had attempted to cower behind a heavy wrought-iron tower shield. He kicked the corpse off of the shaft of his spear as a bolt fired from Bianca whizzed past his left ear and embedded itself deeply in the chest of a rogue who was trying to flank him. From ahead and above him, on the wall that outlined the courtyard, a bolt of flame came sizzling down upon him, but Trystane’s barrier absorbed it effortlessly; bolstered by his heightened connection to the Fade, his barriers had become stronger by another order of power completely.

Trystane gestured towards the mage, focusing on the Veil next to him and connecting to it with the Anchor until a flash of steel at his side cut his concentration, a tevinter broadsword glancing off of his silverite mail and leaving a small cut at the junction where it met his armored glove. He hissed and side-stepped the warrior’s follow up stroke, stepping into his guard and bringing the butt of the spear crashing upward into the man’s jaw. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious almost instantaneously.

“Focus on fighting, my good man!” Dorian called from nearby. “And practice later!”

Trystane rolled his eyes as he met the advancing sword of another venatori warrior – three of them thought they had backed him up against the wall, but he was unconcerned. These fighters were practically untrained. One hallmark of a cult is that their numbers are many, but they lack skill and compensate for it with zealotry; their flailing meant little against the precise silver arc of his blade. He caught the blade of the nearest man on the shaft of his spear, deflecting his forward momentum and bringing the blade of the spear up to slash across his gut.

His opponent howled in pain, sinking to the ground for a moment before the blunt end of the spear cracked against his skull, sending him with a resounding thud to the sandstone floor; his two comrades were similarly dealt with in mere moments.

When he looked up from the venatori at his feet, breath coming to him in heavy pants and scarlet glistening off of his silverite mail in the glaring sun, he saw that his companions had taken down the mage as well as the small handful of warriors and rogues that accompanied them.

The courtyard hooked once again to the left to an iron portcullis leading into the heart of the Keep. A steep flight of sandstone stairs led into the keep’s inner courtyard, flanked by four towers and overlooking the rest of the ruin and the surrounding wasteland.

“No doubt there’s another Venatori bastard up there,” Trystane sighed as he looked warily to the steps. “Wonder why the didn’ shut the gate?”

“Must be feeling lucky,” Dorian chirped at his side; Cassandra merely grunted her displeasure.

“Right, let’s go get some baddies,” Sera agreed with Dorian.

“Yes, let’s,” Trystane responded as he twirled the spear in his left hand – his eyes fell on the silverite rune there, and the engraved eagle whose wings cradled the spear’s blade.

_Clear out these bastards, we wind up with a proper forward operating base… Cullen will be setting up here._ It was surreal to think that in a matter of a week or so the Inquisition might have transformed this Keep entirely, that instead of bloodstained stone and glaring heat that he might see those familiar amber eyes awaiting his return from some other mission.

_Focus, Trevelyan_ , he cautioned himself.

He strode up the sandstone steps, making it hardly halfway before he heard the unhinged voice of what he could only presume was the cultist in charge of this ruin:

“We serve, Inquisitor! In life and in death, we serve a new god!”

A fade-step brought him within striking range of the speaker, now evidently a mage adorned in traditional tevinter robes, but the other evaded his attack in a billowing trail of smoke. _A spellbinder._ His enemy reappeared on the left edge of the open courtyard, in the shadow of one of the surrounding towers, but Trystane had no time to focus on him before a venatori agent leapt out at him from where he had been concealed.

_I see, they’re adapting to my fighting style. It’ll be a fair bit more difficult to surprise ‘em now, I suppose,_ he thought as he backpedaled beyond the range of sweeping daggers. He whipped the spear around in a broad arc, bringing his superior reach to bear against the dagger-wielding rogue, just as his companions finished climbing the stairs.

He could feel the charged feeling of magic building up, swelling – it felt acrid and smokey, like a flame enchantment. A glance at the spellbinder showed the man intent on the floating tome in front of him, smoke and red magic beginning to swirl around him and embers floating on the almost nonexistent wind.

“Cole! I need a hand!” He called out, wanting to deal with this rogue quickly so he could stop the spellbinder.

In the next instant, Cole appeared behind his prey, slitting the rogue’s throat before he was even aware what was happening. “I don’t think I can give you my hands, but I can try,” he said simply.

“No, thas’ not -  nevermind. Thanks,” Trystane replied quickly before fade-stepping away towards the spellbinder who was now enveloped in sweltering heat. His spell was clearly almost ready to be cast.

Trystane brought the blade of his spear down in front of him, slashing through the spirit-imbued tome and cutting off the mage’s connection to the enchantment he was casting; the heat dissipated easily. The mage, unable to evade his attacks without the magic stored in his grimoire, was unprepared for the haft of the blade to whip him across the skull. Silver arced through the sun, glinting harshly under its light, followed by a spray of crimson as the blade was imbedded in the tevinter’s chest.

“That’s all of them,” he heard Cassandra’s voice behind him, weary but with a note of pride. “We are victorious, Inquisitor.”

All that was left to do was to hoist the Inquisition Flag above the battlements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment! I love hearing from anyone still reading this. Looking forward to posting more!


	29. 25.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time spent in the Western Approach, and the trials to come, wear heavily on the Inquisitor's mind. The forces of the Inquisition mobilize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New update! So sorry that it's been so long. I kinda fell out of my sense of motivation for this fic for awhile, and when I would work on it I just had difficulty getting into it. But I recently decided to reread through the whole thing and that helped a lot, I feel a lot more into writing this than I have recently, so I hope I can keep this momentum going! 
> 
> If anyone is still reading this, then I hope you enjoy! Next up is the march on Adamant.

The flat of his palm pushed against his brow, swiping over his forehead and through straw blonde hair in uncharacteristic disarray. Cullen had been under a lot of stress in the last few days. He tried not to consider that his current workload would have been a lot more manageable in the presence of a certain silver-haired man. Or even more unsettling, that before meeting the man he might not have been able to handle it without turning to lyrium.

As it turned out, he rather felt like he had swapped out one addiction for another – the electric, powerful feeling of lyrium for the man who is simultaneously gentle touches, comforting presence and invigorating challenge.

 _Maker, can’t I sign some damned missives without thinking of him?_ He reprimanded himself silently while he practically punched his seal onto a previously-neatly folded envelope.

He had taken to working in the Inquisitor’s otherwise deserted chambers. Something in the quarters calmed him – be it the scent, the visible reminders of Trystane’s presence, the sunlight filtering through the broad bay windows that reminded Cullen of confident, toothy grins.

With a sigh he set the sealed envelope aside into its proper stack, having allowed the wax to cool, and stood to stretch his legs, looking again to the glass door that was set into the balcony window.

As if compelled, he strode over to the door and flung it open, letting the cool breeze into the room. He hadn’t realized how hot he had gotten in his coat, and he shrugged it off and over the frame of a nearby chair.

A knock on the door startled him slightly. It isn’t as if the others didn’t know that he worked here sometimes, but it did feel slightly embarrassing sometimes. He called for whoever it was to enter as he reseated himself at the desk.

“Ah, Commander. Working in the Herald’s quarters again?” Solas’ tone is strictly pleasant enough to make conversation with him – Cullen often felt that the elf mage didn’t care for him much.

 _Not surprising. I don’t have… the best image among mages,_ he thought.

“Solas,” he acknowledged with a nod as he reached for a pen and regarded the letter in front of him – another missive from Trystane this time, ordering troop movements into the Western Approach and requesting for Josephine to acquire trebuchets.

_If only he were here. Maker, whatever is brewing in the Approach is certainly nothing to brave alone._

“What can I do for you?” he asked, just as he noticed a light grey moth land on the back of his hand – almost white, settling and ruffling its wings slightly.

“I wondered where it was going,” Solas nodded to the moth. “I could feel its magic once it entered the grounds. Can you feel it?”

 _You know perfectly well I’m no mage,_ he almost growled in annoyance. Did Solas come up here just to bother him with nonsense?

But then…

Suddenly, he felt a familiar presence, warmth spreading in his chest just like the sunlight breaking through the window.

It felt like…

“Trystane,” he said in a fond, yet confused, tone. “Why do I suddenly feel like he’s right here?”

              Solas nodded to the moth just as it lifted up from his hand and fluttered up and out of the window. “It’s his magic. He used it to send you a message of sorts – to communicate his love to you. He… must care for you greatly.”

His tone was shockingly wistful. Pensive. While that may have been normal for the introverted elf, this felt different.

Cullen couldn’t help the warmth that spread across his cheeks, flushing all the way down to his neck. _Trystane is thinking of me, out there in the Approach. He took the time and magic to send me this, just to let me know. What did I do to merit such warmth?_

“… thank you, Solas,” Cullen said with a gentle grin, eyes fixed to that point on the back of his hand as if it’d been branded. It blew his mind that Trystane had made the effort to send him this kind of delicate, surreal message from halfway across Thedas.

The feeling was nothing short of incredible.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for, Trystane sent the message. But I understand what you mean,” Solas said neutrally. He began to bow his head, hands clasped behind his back. “I should be-“

“Solas-” Cullen began abruptly before realizing that he was interrupting the other. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I just…” he thought about what he wanted to say for a moment, rolling the sentiment over mentally before voicing it. “You’ve helped to take care of Trystane quite a bit. You’ve been there for him in ways that… other’s have not been able to. I want you to know that I appreciate that. I’m glad that he has such a friend,” Cullen finished, and he couldn’t be blamed for flushing slightly at his unexpected, sudden earnestness.

Solas, too, had clearly not expected it, but once he took a moment to process it the blonde could have sworn the faintest of grins ghosted across his expression. “I thank you, Commander… if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend,” Solas was suddenly pensive, turning before Cullen could bid him farewell to descend the stairs and exit the Inquisitor’s quarters.

***

Trystane collapsed, heavily fatigued, into his newly established quarters in Griffons Wing Keep. Unlike in Skyhold, where they placed him at the very highest point in a suite overlooking the entire castle, here his room was placed deeper within the keep where it would be coolest and most secure.

He only had a few precious moments’ rest before he was to leave, again. It had only been three days since the keep was claimed and he had already spent much of it trekking through the desert, helping with work that sincerely could be left to people lower in the chain of command. He had done it all of his own will, filling his time and draining his energy in a desperate attempt to keep his mind off of recent events. When he closed his eyes he swore he was still on the platform of that ritual tower, feeling the decaying Veil around him swirl with the oppressive heat and the sickly-sweet scent of death and decay.

It all brought into very sharp focus their mission here, and raised to the forefront of his mind anxieties surrounding what the rest of the Wardens could be up to in this very moment. Every moment of delay he feared that the Wardens would execute their desperate plan and that all would be lost. There remained the very real possibility that, despite all of his effort and sacrifice, all could still fall in a desperate slide of a dagger against Warden flesh, spilt Warden blood. The Inquisition’s hands were tied, however, at the moment. They simply couldn’t simply face the Wardens without the full force of their army no matter how impressive their Inquisitor’s magic might be.

So Trystane stayed, pouring all of his effort into stabilizing the region in the time that it would take for his advisors to mobilize their forces and make the march towards the Western Approach.

There were, regardless, two things that helped to quell his growing restlessness and anxieties; the first was Cole, who had fallen into a routine of infiltrating Adamant, mapping out the fortress and doing all he could to subtly stall their progress; the enemy’s supplies flagged, messengers were lost or delayed or arrived in an inexplicable daze, little things that encouraged a festering chaos in the Warden ranks. Even desperate as they were, this ritual was still quite a maneuver to plan and execute smoothly, and it calmed Trystane to know that they were able to throw even the smallest of wrenches into he cogs of the Warden machinations.

That second thing was, naturally, the thought that Cullen would soon join him here. His Commander, his Lion, his bulwark against the stress and despair that seemed to pervade Thedas as of late. While Trystane would hope to be reunited with his warm embrace under different circumstances, he would allow himself to find solace where he could. Maker knows they both desperately needed it.

He settled into the bed – even if he was Inquisitor, there was only so much they could do in this far-flung corner of the desert, and so it was little more than a cot, hard and several inches too short, but he didn’t mind. The darkness and cool air of his room was more than enough to be thankful in the unending heat of the desert.

Soothing magic flooded his system as he reclined, allowing his eyes to rest but mindful not to fall fully asleep; he used his healing magic to rejuvenate his system in lieu of a true sleep, and despite how limited he knew his time would be he still felt the brief flash of irritation as a knock came to his chamber door, and with a gesture he pulled the door open with a tug of force magic.

“Hey, Silver,” Trystane sat up at the gentle, gravelly tone of Varric’s greeting as the dwarf stepped into the room. He wore a concerned frown on his face, eyes taking in how Trystane was in as much disarray as he ever allowed himself to be – hair disheveled, having not been properly cleaned or brushed in a couple days, bags under his eyes. He was acquiring a tan from his hours in the sun, even a bright red stripe of burned skin across his nose and the back of his neck. Varric himself was tired, worn to the bone, but even he had seen to his own care better than the Inquisitor had. “I, uh, was supposed to tell you. We’re leaving in a few minutes.”

 _Right. ‘Ave to do my job._  Trystane nodded, forcing his face into a faint grin instead of the grimace that might have more accurately reflected his emotions.

“Thanks, Cards,” Trystane said as he raked a hand through his hair, getting up from his cot and pacing over to his desk, picking up a sun-bleached ribbon off of it and using it to hastily tie his hair into a messy bun.

“Kid, you’re a mess,” Varric wasn’t one to mince words, when he meant them. “You’re running yourself into the dirt. We’re worried.”

Trystane gave his friend a sympathetic smile, his eyes carrying an uncharacteristic melancholy. “ ‘Am not the only one,” he responded quietly and, with a gesture, his spear came floating to him. He had stopped wearing armor on his excursions through the desert – the heat here was perhaps more dangerous than their enemies were, and he was focusing more on defensive magic to make up for it. Event he warriors were resorting to light armor, relying on Trystane’s and even, sometimes, Dorian’s defensive magics to make up for it.

Not that anyone aside from Trystane often engaged enemies during their outings. The Inquisitor had become a terror on the battlefield, venting his growing despair and anger in blindly quick and brutal strikes of his magic and spear alike.

Varric was quiet. They both knew that the Inquisitor referred to Hawke, who had been as relentless in his pursuit of Venatori in the area and his reconnaissance missions.

“Come now. This one’s actually important,” Trystane placed a reassuring hand on Varric’s shoulder for only a moment before sweeping through the door and up the sandstone steps towards the Keep’s ground level. Varric followed quietly, still pensive.

***

Cut into the rocky sandstone face of a cliff, one side of the ravine that had been carved into the earth of the Western Approach by some ancient river, sat a Tevinter ruin. It was cloaked in an air of foreboding, mystery. Ever since they had arrived here, Harding and her scouts reported Venatori going in and out, and yet there was no sign of life, no sound, no movement, no vitality to the ruin. It earned, among the Inquisition’s people, the nickname of the Silent Ruin.

In the past days since they claimed Griffon Wing Keep scouts reported no movement at the Silent Ruin – no one entering, no one leaving, and one of them claimed that the air surrounding the ruin was heavy and charged with magic. Knowing the Venatori, this could lead only to disaster, and so Trystane and his companions swiftly made plants to investigate. After half a day’s journey through the early morning of the Western Approach, sun still low in the sky, they entered the ravine and made their way towards the location as marked on their maps.

The shell of an ancient Tevinter fortress was halfway hidden by a stand of trees – a narrow stream, all that remained perhaps of the river that had created this ravine, fed the small grove, along with a handful of deathroot and elfroot stalks. It really did earn its nickname – even more so than in the rest of this blighted desert, a heavy silence filled the air. It felt unnatural, and both the Inquisitor and Dorian could feel the electric prickle of magic on their skin as they entered the grove. Up ahead, the gate into the old fortress stood flanked by sandstone towers, collared in iron in the Tevinter style but brought low by time and weather. No one stood guard.

Still, their party pressed forward with their guards up – one never knew what could await them around a bend, at the end of a shadowed corridor, and when they passed into the shallow former courtyard they noticed that it seemed to have been inhabited. Recently.

“Let’s look around before we go in,” Trystane was the first to break the silence and his own voice felt flat. It was surreal, and it made the hair of his neck stand on end. Their brief investigation revealed a fire, recently cold. Journals that, as read by Dorian, detailed that a former expedition into the ruin had disappeared mysteriously, and that another team entered only just before they did to find out why.

“We will likely encounter Venatori,” Cassandra said gravely, hand tightening at her sword. “And whatever uncanny magic has taken this place. We would do well to proceed with caution.”

Trystane nodded. “Dorian, take the lead. You’re the most familiar with Tevinter magic; I’m going to bring up the rear.” The dark-haired mage nodded, white-knuckled hand on his staff as he moved to the formerly great gateway, sealed now with Tevinter warding magic. It only took a moment for the mage to dispel it and, with a barest of force magic, pushed it open. Old, rusted hinges protested against the movement, but otherwise no sound broke through the stifling air.

As the door opened they were greeted by a cool draft; the air carried with it the scent of the stagnation and age of the old fortress, and they moved forward.

Inside the door was a descending sandstone stairs that lead into what formerly was a grand hall of two levels – its size was absolutely disguised from the outside within the depths of the ruddy red stone cliff, and Trystane knew that this place must have been of some great importance.

At the base of the stair was something much more shocking – two Venatori mages were suspended in place, one of them mid-spell against a despair demon that hovered, equally, still, over a collapsed column. Frost shrouded the demon and covered the ground beneath it, scattered crystals of ice halted in mid-air, swirled around the creature, and Dorian approached it cautiously, probing it with his magic and examining the scene.

“More time magic?” Trystane remarked as they drew nearer. The Venatori here were very much alive – they could make out their fearful expressions, wide eyes and open mouths paused in the midst of an incantation.

“Oh, bugger, shite ain’t never normal anymore,” Sera’s cursing was almost a defeated sigh, as if she couldn’t even bother to be properly surprised.

“What do we do about it?” Cassandra cut straight to the heart of the matter, pacing around the frozen scene before them and examing with cautious eyes the desire demon.

“Let’s see if the rest of the ruin is frozen like this,” Trystane said, testing the magic here, washing it over with his own and examining it in much the same way that Dorian did. “If the entire ruin is suspended like this… perhaps we had best leave it?”

“I am definitely in favor of _not_ intentionally undoing whatever this is,” Varric chimed in, seconded by Sera and, after a moment’s consideration, Cassandra.

Dorian hummed thoughtfully, striding around the side of the Venatori mages and stroking his moustache as he considered what was in front of him. “Perhaps. Though it could be quite valuable a discovery. Either way, we should see what has happened with the Venatori who supposedly arrived to rescue their fellows.”

They moved on through the ruins, very thoroughly examining each side-chamber and corridor they came across, event though the path through the old fortress was essentially a straight line. Trystane marveled at how impressively large the subsequent halls were, and how much larger the structure must have been before its side tunnels and corridors collapsed into nothingness. Occasionally they came across phenomena similar to what they discovered at the entrance, the most terrifying of which was a small Rift that was suspended in time, unreactive to Trystane’s attempts to seal it, perhaps due to the fact that it was frozen thus.

It wasn’t until yet another grand door was thrown open and they stepped out into an open-air courtyard, sheltered on all sides by cliff faces, that they encountered a living face. A small group of Venatori, led by an _Ignius_ mage, a surprisingly formidable foe. Trystane was quick to throw a barrier over his companions, Dorian placing glyphs that sparked with electricity around himself and their archers to ward away their warriors. Trystane focused then on the Venatori _Ignius_ , fade-stepping into his space only to find that the other mage was equally agile; he skated across the sand on molten flame, before launching a fireball at Trystane.

He reached out with his marked hand, opening an aperture into the Veil ahead of the fireball that consumed it, slipping it closed again with a release of energy that sent a nearby Venatori warrior stumbling to the ground. Releasing his pent-up rage, he unleashed a wave of force magic towards the offending Tevinter enchanter. The other responded in kind, but his pool of mana was dwarfed by Trystane’s and the force of his attacks fizzled almost uselessly against the brutal waves of force that threatened to breach his defenses. Finally, Trystane’s onslaught prevailed against the desperate _Ignius_ , and his foe was flung like a rag doll against a low stone wall nearby, his neck twisting unnaturally at the impact.

Trystane turned quickly back to his companions to find that they had made quick work of the other Venatori and were watching him; he noticed how they masked the concern on their faces and turned back to focus on their objective.

They were unnerved, worried. Watching the Inquisitor fight, he was always fearsome to behold but always elegant, refined, his fights over in moment due to his ability to home in on an enemy’s weak point and then crush it with precision. In his anger and frustration, he was fighting more like a force of nature, unreserved strength brutalizing his enemies.

The Tevinter mages had been scouring the ruin for keystones, according to notes on the person of their former leader, in order to open the last great door of the ruin – according to them, it led into a ritual chamber from which this bizarre magic emanated.

Having no use for such things, Trystane strode up to the door and unlocked it in the same way he had in the future he experienced in Redcliffe; the heavy elvhen door, imported into the Tevinter structure in ages past, fell open as he guided a spirit into the lock and undid it. It revealed what was indeed a ritual chamber, suspended in time in the same way that everything else was.

It was small and dimly lit, collapsed pillars and brick littering the front and back of the room that was dominated by a circular raised-stone platform. Stuck into the middle of the platform was a staff of ancient wood, a runed skull mounted into its head and glowing with bluish-green light.

 _Blood magic._ Suspended in the air, arcing around the staff, red dark enough to be almost black, trailed blood that had been there for as long as the spell was active.

“Cassandra,” Trystane’s tone was tense. “Dispel this, please. I don’t want anyone touching this wretched thing.”

“Inquisitor-” Dorian interrupted, likely to point out the value in studying the objet instead of stripping its magic, but he was silenced by a look from the silver-haired mage. There was no arguing this; the Inquisitor didn’t want anything to do with whatever vile magic had been erected here.

Trystane’s expression did soften after a moment as Cassandra stepped forward to prepare to dispel the area; he led Dorian from the room so that they wouldn’t be affected by the silencing technique of the former Seeker. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I don’t mean to be harsh with you… this place has worn me thin,” he said quietly, confiding in the Tevinter.

Dorian, foregoing his normal snark, only placed a gloved hand on his shoulder and mustered the shadow of a grin. “I know, Trys. We have all noticed. Just… try to rest, when we get back, for your own sake.”

Trystane gave him a nod, numbed, fully aware that he didn’t intend to spend any time alone with his thoughts if he could help it. Perhaps Dorian knew this too, as his gaze lingered on Trystane’s expression warily before he only nodded tersely and dropped his hand back to his side.

In the room, Trystane sensed the static of Cassandra’s silencing and watched as the staff dropped dumbly to the ground, the skull shattering as the magic was undone by the grim Seeker. The blood that had formerly floated in the air was flung with force away from the spell’s epicenter, and all at once time began to flow again with a jarring hiss of flowing air, crashing of stone, the clatter of blades and shrieks of demons from within the ruin.

“It appears we’ve work to do,” Trystane sighed and motioned for his companions to follow him back the way they came.

***

Just like Trystane expected, it only took two weeks, close to three, before the Inquisition managed to completely transform Griffon Wing Keep. Huge swaths of fabric were stretched over the keep, protecting its inhabitants from the harsh sun, and that in and of itself had improved living conditions immensely. The decrepit wooden gate had been replaced with one in wrought iron and attached to a lever system, and the keep ramparts were already under extensive repairs, guard rotations established. Cullen’s envoy here, Knight-Captain Rylen, was an efficient worker.

Trystane wiped the sweat from his brow after he tied his hair up and off of his neck – in the sweltering heat of the Approach, he found he never stopped sweating even with the newfound shade of the keep, his quarters the one refuge of cool, dark air. Leaning back over his operations table, Rylen and Cassandra flanking him, he motioned to a point of interest marked on the map by an Inquisition scout.

“So we’ve established a source of water, seen to improvements of the keep, and routed a number of raider and Venatori groups in the vicinity. I’m thinkin’ we can move on to investigatin’ points of secondary interest. What’s this here?” The region he gestured to was in the south of the Approach, largely unmapped due to the presence of raiders in the area – with the criminals scattering in the wake of the Inquisition’s rapid expansion.

Cassandra frowned at Trystane as he pored over the map, obviously fatigued. He certainly hadn’t taken Dorian’s urging to rest seriously and it showed.  

“That is a dragon’s hunting ground, according to recent intelligence, Lord Herald,” Rylen replied. “Formerly the base for a group of raiders that our agents routed last week, a nearbu draconologist claims that an Abyssal High Dragon has claimed it for herself.” Trystane leaned back from the map, his interest piqued but only barely showing through his fatigue. “I’ve heard you are a dragon hunter of some skill – perhaps you should look into hunting the beast? Dragons are notorious blights on merchants and travelers, and might hinder our troop movements.”

Cassandra nodded, but seemed hesitant. “As much as that is true,” she said, “It is… risky for you to engage in such a dangerous battle unless necessary. Especially as… fatigued, as you are,” she spoke carefully, as if wary of offending Trystane. The Inquisitor did his best not to let his stress and exhaustion affect the way he treated those around him, but he had slipped once or twice. They knew he regretted it, but they also wished that he would let someone – anyone – comfort him. They were all waiting for the moment that Cullen would return. She continued: “We have much to lose if you are seriously injured or even killed in battle.”

At that, Trys gave a wry smile and turned to his companion. “Ah, an’ here I didn’ think you cared, Cassandra,” his attempt at humor, mock surprise, fell flat. He frowned slightly as Cassandra raised an unimpressed brow at him, arms crossed. “Don’t worry yourself,” he continued, suddenly serious. “I’ll take care of the beast. I’ll move out later toda-”

The door into the strategy room opened behind him, interrupting him.

“Planning without me, I see?” it was a voice he hadn’t heard in _weeks_ , one that was low and authoritative in just the right way, the one he’d anticipated hearing for as long as he’d been gone from Skyhold.

 _Maker, Lion,_ he thought as he stood bolt-upright, the energy he had been lacking recently flooding his system abruptly. “Cul – Commander!” he tried to keep his voice within its normal octave. “I didn’t know you had arrived!” He attempted to conceal his excitement, to keep up some semblance of professionalism in front of Cassandra and Rylen.

With the way Cassandra and Rylen exchanged long-suffering looks behind his back, perhaps he hadn’t concealed it at all. The way those golden-amber eyes bore into his own, practically devouring him despite the obvious fatigue of a long journey, was enough for Trystane to become immediately oblivious to everything around him.

“Perhaps we ought to continue this discussion at a later time, Inquisitor,” Rylen said with a contained chuckle before nodding to Cassandra, who rolled her eyes and followed him towards the door. The Inquisitor didn’t even notice them, but the shutting of the door was signal enough for him to immediately close the distance between himself and his Lion.

“Cullen, _maker_ , I can hardly believe you’re ‘ere,” he breathed as he wrapped the blonde in a tight embrace, burying his face in the fur of Cullen’s mantle. His hand bunched up in the fur and he stepped back to drink in the sight of his Lion in front of him, grinning with dry humor despite his exhaustion. “You’re wearin’ this even in the blessed desert,” he huffed and Cullen rolled his eyes. Rough hands moved to cup his jaw, grazing his unkempt stubble and bringing their lips together. Trystane’s lips were chapped, punished by the hot and dry climate of the Approach, but Cullen didn’t mind. He wrapped strong arms about the taller man by the waist, pulling him as close as he could.

“Trys,” the blonde breathed, feeling the man noticeably relax into his embrace, once again burying his face into the crook of his neck and nuzzling him there fondly. “I wish I had come sooner.” They both reveled in the embrace for a long moment before parting, Cullen taking a small step back but keeping his hands resting gently on the other’s hip. “What is this about you leaving today? To fight a dragon?”

Trystane grimaced, looking back to the map. “It’s a danger to the keep. I need to-”

“Not today, you aren’t,” Cullen said firmly. “I don’t care if you’re the bloody Inquisitor, that’s an order. I’ve been here for all of a half-hour and already half of your Inner Circle has stopped me to tell me you’re running yourself ragged.”

At that, Trystane’s eyes cast down to his feet and Cullen could see plainly the exhaustion. It was in the slope of his shoulders, the lines of his face, the sunburns across his nose and neck, the heavy bags under his eyes. “I… it’s been difficult, here,” he responded quietly. Cullen’s heart sank at that expression, the one that mirrored closely how Trystane had looked in the aftermath of Redcliffe and, again, Theirinfal.

“Come on. Show me to your quarters, you need some rest,” Cullen urged quietly before placing a gentle kiss against his forehead.

“Right,” Trystane sighed. “This way.”

***

“I don’ think we’ll both fit,” Trystane remarked with humor as he opened the door to his quarters, gesturing to the cot. “But you’re welcome to try,” as Cullen came into the room Trystane moved behind him, helping to remove his mantle and hang it among his things. “You really shouldn’a brough’ that here,” he added in passing. “The dust and heat are sure to destroy it, Cull-”

As he turned back from hanging the fur he was caught up in Cullen’s strong arms, wrapping around him and pulling him back against him. Tucking him against the other man, and the scent of sandalwood relaxed him. Neither of them were clean, per se, sweaty from the oppressive sun, but it still was a comfort to feel his lover pressed against him.

“Come on, you need to sleep,” Cullen said as he led Trystane to the cot, looking at it expectantly. The silver-haired man took his hair out of the bun he had tied it in, relenting and sitting down. He swung his legs up, leaning back into the bed with a huff. Cullen chuckled lightly at the way the other man pouted as if he were a child being put to bed by his mother. “I’ll come back later, I suppose, let you rest,” he tried to conceal his own disappointment to leave the other for more than a breath.

“Stay, Cull,” Trystane said, moving to make as much room on the cot as he could. “I won’ be able to sleep otherwise.”

The Commander didn’t offer much resistance, letting a smile slowly overtake his face. “You don’t fight fair at all, you know,” he said as he moved to kick off his boots and settle into the cot next to Trys. It was a tight fit, yet neither of them cared. In moments the Inquisitor had drifted to sleep, having nestled against Cullen’s chest and wrapped him in a warm embrace.

_He looks so much more peaceful. My eagle, this wasteland has been unkind to you._

Guilt coiled in his gut as he thought on that, on what Trystane must have endured all this time while he sat in the safety and comfort of Skyhold.

 _It isn’t fair, what we must ask of you._  

Cullen didn’t sleep, himself, merely held his man against his chest and allowed his gentle breathing to soothe his worry.

They passed some hours like that, Cullen managing to drift in an out of the haze that was not-quite-sleep. He needed the rest himself, but it didn’t come easily. He wasn’t sure what time it was that the knock came to Trevelyan’s door, stirring the man from his rest, causing Cullen to shoot an irate glance at the source of the offending noise.

“What is it?” Trystane called tiredly from beside him, his head lifted and eyes blinking blearily at his fatigue. He already looked much better – he knew that Trystane’s ambient magic caused him to recover very quickly in his sleep, something that had been invaluable in the constant activity of his role as Inquisitor.

“Get off yer arse, Brother, it’s time to eat! Open this Maker-damned door!”

Trystane grimaced and with a gesture the door was flung open. “What do you _want_ , ye damn weapon,” he said as he sat up, arm tightening around Cullen as the other attempted to get up.

“I see you two wasted no time,” Percival said with a smirk as he stepped into the room, followed by Dorian who looked equally amused. “Surely beddin’ your templar could-”

“ _Percy_ , I swear,” Trystane growled and Cullen flushed bright red. “I don’ know how ma managed to raise a fool lik you. What’s this about food? Just have it brought here.”

“Not happening,” this time Dorian cut him short. “Josephine’s arranged a little _fete_ to get everyone’s spirits up. We are moving out tomorrow, after all, now that the army has arrived.”

Cullen could feel the stress returning to Trystane’s shoulders, and he nudged him slightly. “The rest of your companions are waiting to see you,” he said gently. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

At that Trystane finally complied, allowing Cullen to drag him to standing before he stretched tiredly. Percy regarded him affectionately. “You look better. I’m glad your man convinced you to sleep a little,” at that he gave Cullen a grateful smile.

Trystane grumbled in reply but pulled Cullen into a small embrace. “You two get out. I have to make myself presentable,” he turned to the mirror placed over his desk and worried at his hair.

Dorian opened his mouth to make some sort of retort, but instead he was pulled unceremonsiously from the room by a laughing Percival.

***

“It amazes me, your ability to be so consistently late,” Leliana remarked with an amused smirk as Cullen entered the room that had been prepared for their little gathering, followed by Trystane. There were a few tables set up around a fire pit, the tables piled with food that had been brought with the Inquisition army.

Trystane flushed, though it was harder to notice now – his skin had taken on a deep tan in his time in the Approach, and coupled with the red sunburns he sported it was difficult to register his blush. He was much more put-together than any of his companions had seen him in the past two weeks. He and Cullen had toweled themselves down with a small amount of spare water, and Trystane carefully combed out and braided his hair before twisting it into a braided bun atop his head. It had taken them twenty minutes, and they hadn’t realized that the rest of them were quite literally already at their tables. He still looked tired, but not so dramatically as he had mere hours previous.

“Don’t mind the Sister, you needed your beauty rest,” Varric said with a wink. Trystane brushed it off, moving to greet Leliana and Josephine, followed by his companions who hadn’t made the journey to the approach with him: Vivienne, Blackwall, the Iron Bull, Solas.

“I knew we should have come with you, dear, you look simply awful,” Vivienne noted, even if her eyes had a fond sparkle to them. “When was the last time you bathed?”

“Now come on, we’re no’ here to talk about my bath,” Trystane deflected and took a seat next to Cullen.

Cassandra, in a rare show of affection, placed a hand over his from across their table. “You do look better, Inquisitor. I’m glad you’ve had some rest,” she said and shot a glance to Cullen.

“Helps that blondie here prolly wore ‘im out,” Sera said from behind with a clap on the Commander’s shoulder and a wink to Trystane, and Cullen swatted her hand away.

“Why does everyone insist on – _maker_ ,” he gave a resigned sigh and looked despairingly to Trystane who was enjoying the flustered look on his face. It was the first genuine grin they had seen on him in days, and those who had been here with him relaxed at the sight.

Iron Bull decided that they had had enough teasing, talking easily over the amicable chatter. “Alright, we get it, you’re both adorable. Time to EAT!” Trystane dug in along with everyone else, content for the evening to be passed in friendly banter and easy company.

Tomorrow, after all, they began their march on Adamant Fortress, their plans already drawn up and resources mobilized. It was worthwhile to take small comforts in this calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are always appreciated! It helps me feel motivated to write if I know people are reading it and are interested. Thanks to everyone who is reading, and hopefully there will be more next week.


	30. 26.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege on Adamant begins. The Inquisitor confronts Magister Erimond and Warden-Commander Clarel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's only been like two weeks since I posted, crazy, right? Lmao. I'm trying to be better!
> 
> I really enjoy the conflict and the imagery of Adamant, but since it's something we've all presumably seen a million times I only really wrote important moments. I hope you enjoy it!

Adamant Fortress was another relic of Tevinter craft, a great sandstone structure capped in iron and decorated here and there with the imposing ironwork of that era – huge spikes and statues that extended high into the sky, its jagged silhouette a blemish on the otherwise flat, continuous landscape of the scrublands around it.

Trystane could not help but feel it was fitting that, in the weeks he had been here, their one respite of a cloudy and cool day was this, the Inquisition’s siege of the old Warden bastion. The grey of the sky, deepening the shadows all around them as if plunging the desert into night, certainly set a tone for the events about to unfold. He marched alongside Cullen, surrounded by his Inner Circle, while only a small force remained behind to protect their Keep.

“The most dangerous part of this operation is the approach,” Cullen was speaking next to him – gone was the tranquility of their morning, that small moment in which Trystane had woken to a peacefully sleeping blonde next to him. Now they were focused on their mission, and in both of their guts twisted a certain unease at the idea of the other being flung into battle. Cullen continued. “We have the battering ram prepared, but it must be flanked by shield-bearers and we will likely sustain heavy casualties while we wait on the gate to be broken.”

“Never mind the ram,” Trystane said as he set his jaw into a firm grimace, eyeing the castle in the distance. “Leave it to me.”

“Inquisitor,” Trystane could hear the concern in his voice and he flinched. He needed to be sharp, he needed to use his anger he –

Cullen took Trystane’s hand in his for just a moment to squeeze it reassuringly, and he couldn’t help but pull his gaze away from Adamant.

“You are not to take unnecessary risks,” the Commander’s voice was low and gave no room for argument; the Inquisitor’s protest died on his tongue.

“Cullen, I will be fine,” he said earnestly, wanting to ease the worry he saw written between Cullen’s brows. “I can breach the gate without being injured. We can save at least those lives that would have been lost using a battering ram.”

The blonde took a moment to weigh their choices before nodding reluctantly. “Do what you must, but I meant it Trystane,” he looked determinedly into grey-green eyes. “Be careful.”

Trystane nodded, only wishing that he could give Cullen a kiss before he picked up his pace to reach the front of the marching body.

It began to rain.

***

Their lines were established, equipment prepared, orders delivered. Cullen gave a fine rousing speech to the men, and Trystane was off. It was daunting, almost symbolic, the way that the single man marched ahead of the soldiers.

Their silver-headed Inquisitor was an inspiring sight, awesome and fearsome in glittering silverite and snowy wyvern leather, spear-staff brandished at his side and the very air surrounding him sparking and crackling with raw power. If it were anyone else, the enemy would surely laugh off the approach of a lone man, but the closer he drew the more their enemy felt very real dread.

As the first arrows were loosed from Adamant’s battlements, a barrier went up over the Inquisitor in a wide semisphere – fed by the Anchor’s tie to the Fade itself it was an almost impenetrable defense. Flaming arrows, rocks and spears alike fell dumb to the earth.

Trystane marched with determination until he was about ten yards or so from the gate – he hardly even registered the meager attacks that bounced off of his barrier. To his right, one of the sappers struck the structure’s perimeter wall and he raised his hand, signaling the approach of the troops. The instant response, from behind, was the raised voices of their dozens upon dozens of fighters as they charged the front gate.

Reaching out with his marked hand he plucked at the veil in a way that was becoming natural to him – this Rift magic was subtle but devastating, just like sympathetic magic. He saw the space that was occupied by the fortress’ gate begin to ripple, growing unstable under his magic, and all at once he fed a strong jolt of magic along the connection and snapped the fabric of the Veil back into place with as much force as he could.

The resulting explosion decimated not only the front gate but the stone above it, blasting it all inwards and clear of the entry just as the first soldiers drew even with Trevelyan, but he soon pulled ahead with his Fade-Step, unleashing his fury on those defending the front gate. The trebuchets attacked freely now, soldiers with ladders beginning to scale the enemy’s defenses as he appeared beyond the threshold in a burst of raw magic, spear striking ahead of him just as his first target attempted to bring up his tower shield in a hasty attempt at defense. A pull on the veil sent another warrior sailing towards him, and the Veil Quartz blade of his spear struck the unfortunate bastard down mid flight. He practically danced through their ranks, determined to clear the courtyard before the first of his own soldiers could even clear the entrance.

“Inquisitor!” he heard Cullen’s voice, practically a bark, from the entrance and he fade-stepped back. The members of his Inner Circle that he had decided should accompany him – Blackwall, Dorian, Percy, Cassandra and Vivienne – were just now arriving alongside the blonde, and didn’t look too pleased. “You didn’t say anything about diving headlong into the _bloody castle alone,_ ” Cullen practically growled, his displeasure clear on his face. “What was it I _just_ said about being careful?”

Trystane didn’t even bother to look abashed. “I’m fine, Cullen, I wanted to clear the courtyard so that it wouldn’t become a choke point. Now we have an objective to reach.”

“Trystane-”

“I’m sorry, Cull, I am,” he interrupted, striding directly into the blonde’s space and pressing his forehead to the blonde’s, cupping the back of his head gently, in such contrast to the way his magic crackled roughly in the air around him. His barrier remained erect around their entire group all the time. “I will see you soon, Maker willing,” he said gently. “I love you. Please be careful.”

Trys turned to go, motioning for his friends to follow, and Cullen cleared his throat loudly. “That’s _my_ line – Maker…” Effortlessly the two of them slipped back into their roles, Cullen calling loud commands and directing soldiers while Trystane made his way though the courtyard and further into the fortress alongside his companions.

His cadre moved with purpose through the ruined corridors, courtyards and other structures of Adamant. The reality of battle had marred this place, not just now but many times in the past. Collapsed walls, piles of rubble made the place seemingly impossible to navigate even with the detailed information that Cole had provided over the past weeks. They were met at every turn with Wardens and demons – they fought them where they could do so without seriously impeding their progress.

As much as it wrenched his gut to leave the bulk of the battle to his soldiers, he knew that was their role, and his was entirely separate. His job was to make his way to Clarel and cease this madness with as much speed as possible, and he knew that he could make a bigger difference by ending this quickly than he ever could be personally intervening in every fight he came across.

That didn’t mean that he would ever be able to forget the screams from all around him, the sight on the periphery of hs vision of one of their soldiers being dragged to the stone floor by a demon just before his fellows could reach him, the way that a once-noble Warden crumpled like paper as he was struck by an Inquisition trebuchet.

Everything about this was more real than he ever could have anticipated, it was hotter, wetter, dirtier, bloodier. After all he had done for the Inquisiton he was no stranger to violence, but warfare was violence on a scale he had never witnessed before. He was forced to quash the aching of his heart and the way his head swam with nausea.

In gloried stories of battle, no one ever told the reality of it. How blood stained the stone at their feet, how smoke and ash mixed in the air and clouded their vision, how much it _smelled_ of shit and piss and death.

***

“Clarel!” the Inquisitor’s voice pierced the courtyard, above the ambient clatter of steel on steel and strained voices in battle. “Stop this madness! You are all giving in to what the Magister _wants!_ ” His voice was desperate, strained, his armor blood-splattered and fatigue pulling at him.

“Oh, and what is that, Inquisitor? Fighting the Blight! Saving the world from darkspawn! Who wouldn’t want that?” the pompous voice that he knew all too well bit back – Trystane could have snarled at the sight of the greasy Tevinter man, the face he still saw in his nightmares of the ritual tower – “Hate me for the use of blood magic if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their _duty_!”

“And in the process, Erimond binds your minds to Corypheus!” It’s Stroud that speaks up, this time, and that visibly shakes Clarel.

“Corypheus? But he’s dead…” Clarel’s voice was all but lost in the distance between them, she and Erimond stood on a platform overlooking the broad central courtyard where she gathered the Wardens for their ritual while Trystane and his party drew ever closer, the Wardens gathered there clearly wary.

“These men will tell you anything to shake your confidence, Clarel,” Erimond turns to her, sneering. “We must complete the ritual, _now_.”

Clarel seems to ponder his words for a tense moment. “Bring it through!” She barks, and the mages surrounding the circular platform beneath her begin to charge their enchantment.

Adrenaline spikes in Trystane’s veins, his urgency growing. Percival is at his side, a grounding presence that keeps him from outright attacking the remaining Wardens.

“Wardens, I _beg_ you,” his plea is desperate, emotion tinging his words, his voice almost raw. “We have spared Wardens where we can! We have no desire to fight you, but you must understand - this Calling you feel is false, a machination of Corypheus!”

There was a long moment of silent after that, a moment that was suspended in time and seemed to stretch into much longer. The gathered Wardens turned to Clarel, alarm clear in their features, and the shadow of doubt across her’s grew much darker.

“Perhaps we can test these claims,” Clarel said hesitantly, gauging Erimond’s reaction. The Tevinter Magister’s face fell instantly into a grimace as he gripped his staff.

“And perhaps I should call a more reliable ally!” he called as he took a few steps back and away from Clarel, striking the stone with the blunt end of his staff. “My master thought you might show up, Inquisitor, and he gave me _this_ to deal with you!”

Trystane could feel the ripple of magic that flew through the air with each strike – every mage could feel it.

A beacon.

They felt it before they heard it, the trembling of the stone foundation and the vibration of the very air around them just before the screeching, ungodly roar of the Archdemon rent the sky above them.

_No. Not here. Not again._

Visions of Haven, of that hellish black silhouette against the clear, mountain sky. Of its corrupt, lyrium-laced flame ravaging the fledgling Inquisition’s defenses. Trystane’s breath caught in his throat, his response stalled and he felt suspended in space, merely an observer as the great jagged black wings blocked out the rising moon.

It was Vivienne, then, who threw up the barrier that blocked its first strike – Trystane, visibly shook, swallowed with difficulty and shot her a look of appreciation.

The proud battlemage could handle quite a bit, but few things could shake him in the way that Corypheus’ Archdemon could, in its evocation of the bitter cold and near-death alone in the frozen mountain path.

“Inquisitor!” Vivienne called, her imperious voice drawing him back to the present, to the very real battle that hinged delicately on the coming moments.

The great beast landed on one fo the fortress’ towers, bellowing with its unholy call.

Trystane’s eyes were drawn back to the platform just as arcing lightning struck Erimond, launching backwards and onto his arse. Clarel was the picture of fury, disgust, _betrayal_ as she looked between him and the Archdemon, the understanding of what he, what _she_ had done twisting her expression.

“Clarel, wait…” Erimond said as he struggled to his feet, watching Clarel eye the beast, but she ignored him.

With a grunt of effort she launched a ball of hot white plasma at the creature, striking it in its neck and hardly wounding it. The Archdemon bellowed once more before answering with flames of its own, its attack sending both Erimond and Clarel flying.

Erimond fled, still reeling, Clarel chasing hot on his heels.

“After them!” Trystane called to his companions before giving chase himself.

Their flight was mad, unthinking of risk or strategy as they followed the Magister and the Warden blindly out of the lefthand flank of the courtyard and into the upper levels of the old fortress, towards one of its only towers left standing.

Immediately they were beset upon by demons, a myriad of lesser shades. Cassandra banished them with a Seeker’s smite, one of those potent talents that set them apart from Templars.

They continued along a covered corridor, a sequence of many covered arches that overlooked the battle below. Even passing tens of feet over the chaos they could hear the screams, the shouting, the sounds of rage and of conflict below. Trystane could not dwell on it, his focus remaining on Erimond and Clarel.

Once more they felt the impact of the Archdemon before they saw it – its massive body gripping to the side of the structure, shaking it and sending brick and stone sliding down to the courtyards below. Trystane halted in his tracks as the tip of the behemoth’s snout extended into the corridor. The barrier flew up between himself and the beast only an instant before the passage was flooded with its hellish magic.

Even fueled by the Fade as his magic now was, the beast’s strength was overwhelming. More so than an entire army’s arrows, stone and spells, the power of this beast was beyond them all, and Trystane’s barrier faltered under its attack, weeping and cracking, threatening to shatter just before the creature slipped from its purchase and was forced to take back to the sky.

Trystane sank to his knees briefly, winded and vision blurry from the sudden drain of magic through the Mark; a strong arm hooked under his own and lifted him up, Trystane leaning on Percy only a moment before they were off again, chasing the Magister and the Warden once more.

They found the two at the peak of Adamant, a half-crumbled tower whose demolished flank overlooked the entire rest of the ruin like some grim balcony, a stage for the bloody drama of this battle to come to a close. The entire rest of the structure spanned beneath them, enormous and labyrinthian in tiers of ruined Tevinter architecture, laid waste by the Inquisition siege equipment and the battle that was still waged across its breadth, turning ever desperate against the onslaught of the demons. It was paramount to find some way to undo the binding of Corypheus’ demons.

“-destroyed the Grey Wardens!” Clarel’s voice, desperate and loathing, unhinged, breaks through the courtyard as Trystane approaches through the broad, iron-collared archway.

“… dangled a little power before your eyes, and you couldn’t _wait_ to get your hands bloody!” This punctuated by the release of magic, the electric snap of mana in the air, and as they emerge they find Erimond on the ground at Clarel’s feet.

The Magister was groaning in pain, curled into himself as his body was wracked with the lingering electricity of Clarel’s attack. Clarel, grim-faced and sneering, approached the man with clear intent.

“You could have served a new god…” Erimond managed to croak out, his tone stained by the effort of speaking through his pain.

“I will _never_ serve the _Blight_!”

Trystane made to call out to her, stall her hand. _As much as I’m wantin’ that magister’s head on a pike, we need answers. We need to banish these abominations, Clarel, think!_

Before he could, however, the monstrous weight of the Archdemon shook the tower, its jaw snapping abruptly closed over the Warden Commander. In a mere breath the beast was airborne again, its great wings filling the courtyard with wind as it climbed into the sky above the tower and circled it.

It landed, again, on the archway through which the Inquisitor and his companions had entered the courtyard – they backed away towards the exposed edge of the tower, wary to keep the Beast at arm’s length. It shook its head, once, Clarel’s body clenched in its jaws like nothing more than limp meat, before tossing the Warden Commander back to the sandstone of the old tower, lowering itself slowly down as well as it turned its attentions to the Inquisitor.

The barrier remained ready to cast at any time as the Inquisitor thought furiously, body flooded with adrenaline. Could they fight this? Had they any hope of winning, trapped in this courtyard high above the fortress floor?

_“In War, Victory…”_

Clarel’s voice was barely audible above the corrupted, chest-deep, cavernous growling of the Archdemon as it paced slowly towards them. The mage woman was on her back, bleeding rapidly onto the stone below her, not spared a further thought from the great monster as it drew level with her in its path towards the Inquisitor.

_“In Peace, Vigilance…”_

_“In Death…_ ”

An eruption of magic, deep and tinged with the very fibre of Clarel’s being – she drew on the last vestiges of her life force, fueling an arc of thunderous magic thatg pierced the chest of the Archdemon.

_Sacrifice._

 The force of the blast sent it crashing forward and over the Inquisition’s heads, its enormous and jet-black claws clinging to the frayed edge of the tower for purchase before falling towards the ground below.

Trystane did not have time to think, to process what had just happened. His companions had not a second to spare as the creature, unknown to them, righted itself in the air and fled. As the last of Clarel’s life-force, her blood-fueled magic seeped into the stone beneath them and evaporated into the air above them, the force of the creature’s impact sent the foundation of the tower crumbling below them. The edge of the courtyard began to collapse, sections of it following the Archdemon into the desert below, and Trystane turned to flee before glimpsing that Stroud was almost lost, one gloved hand clinging to the rapidly deteriorating sandstone for his life.

The Inquisitor lunged forward on instinct, landing on his chest and grasping at the Orlesian Warden before pulling him up in the mere moment before the entire courtyard fell to nothing.

Trystane’s stomach lurched as he lost his footing, launched into the air as the sandstone fell away to reveal the expanse of space between himself and the rest of the Fortress and his body, suddenly frail, his perspective swinging wildly as his flailing limbs twisted and reoriented in mid-air, gaze cast about madly for something, _anything_.

_It can’t end like this. Falling to my death after surving so much, sacrificing so much._

_If I am truly meant for this-_

There.

He couldn’t see it beyond the barest ripple of green through the space below him, but he felt the Mark react to it and had no time for thought – he tethered it to the distortion in the Veil, ripping it open in the instant before he fell through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm very excited to get into Fade shenanigans, so I hope to have the next chapter up pretty soon. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and would love to hear from you! Looking forward to more.


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